
Class _^S,2£l.r 



Copightl^". 



1M7 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 



I 




I 



GOLDENROD 



A BOOK OF POEMS 
BY 

SADIE CARR 



76 3rz>r 

. /)77/ (n ^ 



Copyri^'lit l!ltl!l 
bv 



SAUlli CAKK. 



S(U<»/V^ 



JYeW, 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two GoDies Received 

APR 28 1909 

^ Copyrijint Lntrv 
JIlaSS Ou XX^ No. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 
PART I 

An Easter Thot 9 

Nebraska 10 

Thou Shalt Not 13 

A Corn Sono' , 15 

After 17 

The Snow 19 

A Song- of Hope 22 

Keep Sweet 23 

Friends 25 

The Rain 27 

The Licenst Saloon 28 

The Days of Yore 29 

Compensation , 32 

Judge Not 33 

Childhood Days 36 

As Others See Us 37 

Sympathy 40 

J. B. Montag-ue 42 

If I'd Only Thot 43 

A Good Time Coming- 44 

Phyllis 46 

Boast vs Boost 54 

Easter 55 

Pinin' Fiir The Country 58 

Twentv-One 60 



PAGE 

The Crank 61 

Contented 63 

Alfred Tennyson 65 

Advice 67 

A Little Child 70 

Politics in the Pulpit 73 

Beauty's Clarinet 76 

The Speaking Dead 81 

The Song of the Tub 83 

Ode to Spring 86 

Clouds 88 

PART II 

Fact and Fancy 89 

Howl Spent My Vacation _ 91 

Former Days 92 

Twenty Years Ago 94 

Stand Up For Edgar 95 

In Nebraska 96 

Our Reception 100 

Stoddard's Military Band 102 

Come On 104 

The Editor's Chill 106 

The Editor's Fourth 107 

What Would You Do 108 

The Editor's Puzzle 110 

When the ^'Machine" Came Home 112 

Coonradt and Casterline 113 

Stray Thots 115 

The Dearth of Ideas 117 

The Old School House 119 

Greeting Song 121 

Wed 123 

Stand Up for Nebraska 124 

Still Standing 125 

A Winter Rhyme 127 



PAGE 

Gentle Spring 128 

PART III 

Three Years Old 132 

Four Today 133 

A Little Boy of Five 134 

Wesley is Six 135 

When a Boy is Seven 136 

Little Vernon 137 

To Vernon 138 

Three To-day 138 

Time's Horses 139 

Five Years Old 140 



Preface. 

This little volume was written for my friends. 
Tt does not presume to enter the field of literature, 
it courts neither the praise nor the censure of 
critics. The thots it contains have come to me 
from the scenes and sounds of this state which 
is the only one I have known and loved, Nebraska, 
and so T have named my book Golden Rod. And 
to my parents and sister, whose loving sympathy 
and constant encourag-ement alone have made this 
book possible it is affectionately dedicated by 

THE AUTHOR. 



Part I. 



AN EACTER THOT. 

Before the first faint streak of dawn 
riad Mary to the g-arden g-one. 
By deep and tender love led on 

To where her Master silent lay; 
The anguish of her bitter grief 
Soug'ht eag-erly some poor relief 
In being near her precious dead, 
But gave place to amazement dread — 

The stone was rolled away! 

As yet she could not understand 

That death had felt a mighty hand, 

And Christ had risen as God had planned^ 

But pain and g'rief and sore dismay 
All vanisht at the magic word 
Of "Mary" spoken by her Lord. 
The loss, the fear, the darkness past, 
8he felt, she knew, for her at last 

The stone was rolled away. 

Like ^Mary, with a broken Heart, ; 

We, too, have been compelled to part 
With dearest hopes, and with a start 
Of dread no promise could allay, 






10 Goldenrod 

We lookt into the dark, cold grave 
From which no human hand could save, 
And, blinded by our speechless grief, 
To us it brot no kind relief 
To think 'twas "rolled away." 

But darkest clouds are pierct with light 
And in the stillness of our night 
We heard a voice, and on our sight 

A vision rose, and lo ! 'twas day. 
'Twas given us to understand 
That even death is in His hand; 
With Him we lookt upon our past, 
And felt and knew, for us at last 

The stone was rolled aAvay. 

O may this blessed Eastertide 

Bring healing to the hearts that bide 

In sorrow by the chill grave-side ! 

"He is not here, but risen" today. 
Not stolen is your treasure, friend. 
But waiting for you at the end. 
And some glad day, the sorrow past, 
You'll feel and know for you at last 

The stone is rolled away. 



NEBRASKA. 

You talk of standing up for the State we call our 

own. 
In point of fact, Nebraska has learned to stand 

alone. 



(iohlcnrod 11 

She has no need of crutches, of canes or friendly 

props ; 
She stands upon her merits and talks about her 

crops. 

If you have need of workmen intelligent and true, 
If you have need of counsel to tell a thing or two, 
Or if you want a preacher to point you to the sky, 
You'll have no cause to rue it if here you first 
apply. 

Nebraska's soil is fertile, her plains are broad 

and fair, 
Her winding valleys woo us their cool retreats 

to share, 
Her pleasant, rolling prairies are dotted o'er with 

herds. 
Her fragrant, well-kept orchards resound with 

songs of birds. 

She points with satisfaction to fields of waving 

grain, 
Sun-kist in summer's glorj^ or wet with tears of 

rain; 
She views her golden cornfields with just and 

worthy pride. 
For well she knows the needy are from her wealth 

supplied. 

The door of education Nebraska open flings. 
And bids her youth partake of the feast which 
knowledge brings; 



12 Gohlcnnul 

Slic t(^ils them of tlio beauties of culture and of 

11 rt. 
And ur^es ever upward with steadfast mind and 

heart. 

If you're in search of weather, whatever you have 

in mind, 
Nebraska can supply it, for she keeps ev'ry kind. 
Her specialty is chano-es, she gives good measure, 

too, 
And warrants satisfaction, and what she says, 

she'll do. 
She cannot boast of wisdom by reason of her 

years ; 
Less than two score the number her statehood 

record bears. 
But as she notes the progress that marks her path 

today, 
She smiles and softly whispers, "I've come a long, 

long way." 

And looking to the future with glad, expectant 

gaze. 
She goes to meet her duties nor fears the coming 

days; 
Her hands are strong to labor, her heart is pure 

and true. 
Her step is firm and buoyant, she loves to dare 

and do. 

Don't talk of "standing up" for this State we call 
our own ; 



Golden rod 13 

Nebraska's fully able to stand up all alone. 

But when you say your prayers, just mention it 
to God 

That you are glad to stand beneath the golden- 
rod. 



THOU SHALT NOT. 

When old JMount Sinai's brow was wreathed 

In clouds and smoke, and lightnings played 
About it, while the thunders breathed 

Their warnings forth to hearts dismayed; 
When all the mountain quaked, and God 

Descended on that awful spot. 
And talked w4th Moses face to face, 

Jehovah uttered, "Thou slialt not." 

When Israel fled before the foe, 

And Joshua inquired the cause. 
The Lord said, "Shame, defeat and woe 

To them that disobey my laws ! 
For Israel hath sinned, in that 

]\Iy covenant thej^ have forgot. 
And taken of th' accursed thing 

AVhereof I charged them, 'Thou shalt not.* " 

Thru all the ages passed away, 

That warning voice rang loud and clear; 
It plainly speaks to us today, 

And woe to them that will not hear! 
Concerning ev'ry evil thing. 

The flagrant act or secret thot. 



14 (lohloirixl 

The person's sin or nation's crime, 

The changeless law is, "Thou shalt not." 

Onr nation sanctions and defends 

The liqnor traffic. Year by year 
Its deadly, subtle pow'r extends. 

From east and west, from far and near, 
A mighty wail of woe is heard ; 

A protest comes from hall and cot. 
While rulers bid defiance bold 

To Him whose word says, "Thou shalt not." 

And think you that our God is deaf 

To bitter cries of dark despair? 
And air unheeding of the grief 

Which these poor burdened victims bear? 
Nay, verily! God is not slack 

Concerning promises, we 're taught ; 
And woe to all who proudly spurn 

The just commandment, "Thou shalt not." 

When millions groaned in galling chains 

Beneath our own fair southern skies, 
God knew their sorrows and their pains, 

He saw their tears and heard their cries; 
And when the time appointed came. 

He purged with blood the nation's blot, 
And vindicated thus the law 

He wrote on Sinai, "Thou shalt not." 

O let us rise while Mercy pleads. 

And save our land from Rum's fell sway! 



Goldenrod 15 

God's grace is pledged for all our needs, 

He calls and shall not we obey? 
Th' opposing forces are arrayed — 

This conflict is with meaning fraught. 
Rum's banners plead for "compromise," 

The hosts of God say, "Thou shalt not." 

Then let us gird the armor on, 

Against the pow'r of evil stand, 
And if the need be, stand alone, 

And hold the fort at His command. 
Our cause is just, our Leader, true ; 

The foe may fight and rage and plot. 
But. we shall triumph in the name 

Of Him who first said, "Thou shalt not." 



A CORN SONG. 

If I was a poet, I'd put into song 
Some scraps of idees that come floatin' along, 
That catch in my brain an' take root in my heart. 
Till it seems they become of my own self a part. 

But I am a farmer, a poor man in truth ; 

I've passed, long ago, the first flush of my youth; 

I haint no book-learnin', I'm sorry to say, 

The chances to get it was not in my way. 

I 'low I don't envy no mortal on earth 
His wealth nor position, his fame nor his birth, 
But I've said an' I do say — I hope it's no harm — 
I'd willin'ly give up the hull o' m}^ farm, 



IC G aide nr 0(1 

If I could pass on a rich blessin' to be, 
Some scraps of idees that come tloatin' to me. 

I reckon I'd hardly make some folks believe 
The g-enuine pleasure that farmin' can give; 
But it is the truth just as sure as you're born, 
I turn out hull poems when plowin' fur corn. 

There's somethin' about it, a feel an' a smell, 
A thrill that goes thru me I can no more tell 
Than I can explain how the kernels will grow — 
One truth is like t'other, it's just simply so. 

I've gQt a conceit that poems is born 
Of dust of the earth, fur they grow in the corn. 
I've read 'em an' studied 'em year after year, 
In tiny green sprout an' in full golden ear. 
They strengthen my weakness, they cheer when 

forlorn. 
The quaint, homely poems I find in the corn. 

When on a bright day I am riclin' between 
The rows of young corn standin' up straight an' 

green. 
Or noddin' an' bowin', first this way, then that, 
Like they was a-havin' a real friendly chat, 
I follow the same paths thg sa;ges have worn, 
An' read lengthy sermons in them blades of corn. 

There's lessons of faith an' of hope an' of truth, 
There's comfort fur age an' there's vigor fur 
youth, 



Goldenrod ^l 

Each year they come brighter an' fuller again, 
God's open love-letters to work-wear}^ men. 

I s'pose that one's work largely fashions his thot ; 
An' maybe I speculate more than I ought 
On things that are mostly above common reach. 
But somehow the sermons the ministers preach 
About streets of gold in yon heavenly clime. 
Just set me to thinkin' of corn ev'ry time. 
For Heaven. I take it, means ample reward 
For all toil and loss which this life can afford; 
The weariness, questionin', waitin' all past, 
To reap full fruition of best hopes at last. 

So give me the corn with its ripe, golden ears, 
Nor think to deny me the message it bears, 
Of plenty while here an' a heavenly home, 
Its promise of this life an' that yet to come. 



AFTER. 

After the darkness, the daylight : 
After the whirlwind, the calm; 

After the sorrow, rejoicing : 
After the wounding, the balm. 

After the pain and affliction, 
After the rod sent in love. 

After the thorns and the scourging 
Crowns and the mansions above. 



IS Goldenrod 

After the wearisome jouriie}'. 
Rest by the river of life ; 

Pleasure ne'er fading nor ending, 
After the toil and the strife. 

After the warfare, the quiet; 

After defeat and despair. 
Victory, hope and assurance. 

Bliss in the home over there. 

After the waiting-, the coming; 

After the Avatching, release; 
After the heart-ache, the heat's-ease; 

After the buffeting, peace. 

After the hunger, the feasting; 

After the thirst and the cold. 
Fountains of pure, living water, 

Welcome and glor}^ untold. 

After the earth-ties are sundered, 
After the farewells are said, 

After the hot tears have fallen 
Over the graves of the dead. 

Comes the sweet comfort and healing, 
Happiness after the pall; 

After the grave, resurrection ; 
Heaven and God after all. 



Goldenrod 19 



THE SNOW. 

1 kaiiit bofziii to tell how iimch 

I like to see it snow. 
Especially when it eoiiies down 

As thick as suds, you know; 
The bii;' tiaK:(^s jusr a-danein' 

An' teaiin" round an' round. 
An' kinder hangin' in the air 

Afore tliey touch the ground.' 

The nicest snow I evei' see 

Fell on a ^^'inter*s day — 
I was attendin' boardin '-school. 

An' quite a piece away 
From hoine. an' I was lonesome like. 

An' feelin' rather blue: 
Foi' I'd ju.st fairly started in 

An' ev'i'ythinsi- was new. 

Well, it had rained the da}' afore. 

Just like it couldn 'r stoj) : 
An' if you set a foot out door. 

You'd set it in a slop; 
An' when it first begin to snow. 

The white Hakes circled rouiul 
As if they kinder felt ashamed 
To fall on muddy ground, 



20 Gohh'urod 

Just like a hesitatiir eat 

A-walkiir in the street. 
An' piekin' all its steps with care 

For fear 'twill soil its feet; 
Or like a young man waverin ' 

x\fore he plunges in 
The broad an' pleasant path that leads 

From virtue into sin. 

But after while it settled down 

To business, an' it snowed 
Like all possest the hull day long. 

By night, there wa'n't a road 
But Avhat A¥as covered hide an' hair: 

Air then it didn't quit 
Right off, just kiiulei- gradual : 

Tt wasn 't cold a bit. 

There hathrt been uo wind all day; 

The snoAv lay where it fell. 
Piled up on fence posts an' on trees. 

On woodpile an' on welF. 
I'd walcht it snow that afternoon. 

All' it just seemed to me 
That nothin' could be prettier — 

Tt was a sight to see! 

Bui when the moon come peekin' thru 
The rifted clouds that night. 

A-H()()din' all the snow-clad eai-th 
With soft an' shimmerin' light. 

An' makin' more gems on the ground 
For poor folks to enjoy 



Croldenrod 21 

Than ever graced a monarch's brow 
Since Adam was a boy, — 

I do declare it iooJc my breath! 

I felt right there an' then. 
Such beauty this side Heaven's galr 

I'd never see again. 
"Pwas all so dazzlin' an' serene, 

So grand an' mild an' pure. 
That if I'd been a ^Methodist, 

I 'd hollered ' ' glory ' ' sure ! 

An' then, to cap it all, a sleigh 

Come prancin' to the door, 
An' I got in, an' then we went 

A dozen miles or more. 
A dozen miles an' back again 

Seemed short to me an' Joe — 
But law, it doesn't seem like that 

AVas twenty year ago! 

I've rode in ev'i*ything that's made 

From chair-cars to a dray. 
An' don't mind sayin' that I think 

There's nothin ' like a sleigh; 
Hut take it all in all, that ride 

Seems like Avas just complete: 
In all my life afore or since. 

I never saw its beat. 



22 (Joldenrod 



A SONG OF HOPE. 

Mariner on life's roug-h sea. 

Far from kindred, friends and home. 
Know whate'ei' yonr lot mav be. 

Wheresoever you may roam, 
(iod is love: His truth and gTaee 

Shall proteet yon day by day ; 
If you ask Him, He will trace 

For yonr bark a plain, safe way. 

'I'ho the nio-ht hv lono- aiid dreai', 

Thc) the billows loudly roar. 
C'onrage, friend, the morn is neai'. 

By its light yon '11 make the shore. 
Troubled skies will clear at last. 

Evil winds will snrely fail: 
When the storm is overpast, 

Ood's own sunshine will prevail. 

Bravely meet the sudden shock. 

For the Avaves shall not o'erwhelm: 
Do not feai* the sunken I'ock. 

For yonr Fathei-'s at the helm. 
On His word your anchor cast. 

Trnst in 0',''. the stoi-m outride. 
Thns unto th>' end hold fast, 

Safely reach the other side. 



Goldenrod 23 



KEEP SWEET. 

There is sadness enong'h in this old world of ours; 

There are heartaches that baffle forgetting- ; 
There is mourning enough over woes that are real, 

AVithout idle complaining and fretting. 
There is no reser v-jd seat in the concert of life 

For the man who sings nothing but dirges ; 
But the songs that are cheerful and hopeful and 
glad, 

'Tis for these that humanity urges. 

() the trifles that bring to the heart discontent. 

And transform merry songs into sighing. 
That becloud the fair brow and that darken tlie 
home. 

And that cliange ringing laughter to crying I 
'JMong the rich and the great, in the circles of 
fame. 

In the ranks of the poor and the humble. 
In the city and country, at home and abroad. 

There are some who do nothing but grumble. 

Mere is one who complains that the times are so 
hard. 
And another's displeased with the weather. 
And still others are sad because some one has said, 
"We're all going to ruin together!" 



--^ Goldenrod 

The young lady despairs because nature forsooth 
Has not given her unrivaled beauty; 

And the young man repines that he wasn't born 
rich, 
And that labor is manifest duty. 

While the married men swear that the single are 
blest, 
The old bachelors lii*mly deny it; 
And tho wives mav insist that the wedded state's 
dull, 
Yet the old maids are anxious to try it. 
Now for all such complaints there's a remedy 
found. 
And it's warranted always to cure: 
It is free as the sunlight to all, and its use 
Will bring happiness lasting and sure. 

It is this: 'Mid the petty vexations of life, 

'^rid the cares and the trials and worry, 
In the time of discouragement, always keep sweet. 

That will cure the blues in a hurry. 
Hard times can't be softened by bitter complaints 

Nor the weather adjusted by swearing: 
And if ruin did threaten to swallow us all. 

We couldn't be saved by despairing. 

The young lad}^ who longs for a beautiful face. 
And the young man who works for a living, 

^Fay discover one day if they only keep sweet. 
That mere beauty and wealth are deceiving. 

Xow if husbands would honestly strive to keep 
sweet, 



Goldenrod 25 

It may be tlieii' wives would quit snarliug: 
While if wives would keep sweet, they mio'ht 
longer retain 
Their old titles of "honey" and ''darling." 

God supplies all we need for the pastry of life. 

But expects us to do our own niixino': 
And the taste of the eompontul in large part 
depends 
Upon seasoning of onv own fixing. 
Let us strive to keep sweet as we journev thru 
life : 
For it pays hei-e, and T shonldn't wonder, 
When accounts are all s(iuared and the books 
closed to find 
That it pays sonic ulad day ovci' yonder. 

FRIENDS. 

I do not count that one my friend 

Who floats with me a down the stream 
AYhen skies are bright and all things blend 

To make life like a pleasant dream, 
And when dark storm clouds quickly rise 

Forsakes me. puts his boat ashore. 
And waits beneath the clearing skies 

To greet me as a friend once more. 

'Tis when the storm clouds darkly lower, 
The waves roll high, the lightnings gleam, 

AVhen losing courage, faith, and power. 
We need a friend to help up stream. 



26 Gnldenrod 

Aii(i he who ill such time stands true, 
And bravely, firmly does his part, 

Deserves the trust we'll never rue. 
And is a friend indeed at heart. 

When fortune froAvns and sorest need 

Becomes a most unwelcome o^nest. 
He is a precious friend indeed 

Whose love and faith will bear the test. 
When death with cold and cruel hand 

Our choicest treasures from us tears. 
It is a friend who helps us stand, 

A friend who all our sorrow shares. 

And when fell shafts of hatred fly 

And seek to pierce the very heart. 
That is a friend who lifts on high 

A shield between us and the dart. 
When whisperers their efforts lend 

Our fairest record to defame. 
Tie is, methinks, the truest friend 

Who saves for us a spotless name. 

I ask not wealth, I ask not fame, 

I crave not place nor power nor ease: 
My heart ne'er felt ambition's flame, 

I can be glad with none of these. 
But from my inmost soul a prayer 

Like daily incense pure ascends. 
It voices ev'ry earthly care, 

God grant me true and faithful friends. 



GoldeiiroJ 



THE RAIN. 

I aint no poet ; I kaint write 

About the mouriifnl, weepin' skies. 
An' pearly raindrops pnre an' britrht 

A-tumblin ' out o ' paradise ; 
But when it comes a soakin ' rain 

That makes the skies as dull as lead. 
An' taps agin the winder pane 

An' patters on the roof o'erhead, — 

I love to g'it the rockin' cheer — 

It's rather old an' somewhat wore, 
I've had it almost twenty year — 

An' jest set there an' watch it pour. 
It does me good to set an' look 

At all the houses washt off clean. 
An' see the grass an' garden truck 

A-pickin' up so fresli an' greei>. 

I like to hear it rain right hard. 

Jest like a minatoor flood. 
An' watch the puddles in the yard. 

An' folks a -si od gin' thru the mud. 
An' then there's soniethin' in the rain 

That sort o' cheers me when I'm sad 
A feelin' that I kaint explain 

Creeps over me an' makes me glad. 



-8 Goldenrod 

Of course it makes the walkin' bad, 

An' sometimes spiles a picnic, too; 
An' then the young- folks they git mad, 

An ' sometimes farmers they git blue ; 
But then it's wicked to complain. 

Because you know that after while. 
In case we didn't have no rain, 

The crops ^n' garden sass would spile. 

I've got an' idee in my head 

That God knows best what's for our good; 
An' if it ought to shine instead 

Of rain, T think it surely would; 
An' so when my plans is upset 

By patterin' drops agfin the pane, 
T aint a-goin' to fume an' fret. 

But thank the Lord an' let it i*ain. 

THE LICEXST SALOON. 

Eyes red with weeping and hearts full of woe, 
Children in tatters tho wintry winds blow, 
Hearths cold and cheerless and cupboards all bare, 
Love turned to hatred and hope to despair, 
Blackness of darkness for life's sunny noon, — 
Such is the work of the licenst saloon. 

Manhood in ruins and health gone for aye, 
Property, loved ones, and home swept away, 
Sacred vows broken and noble plans checkt. 
Pair prospects blighted and fondest hopes wreckt. 
List, ye who think that the di'am shop's a boon, 
This is the work of the licenst saloon. 



Goldcnrod 29 

Crimes without number, a dreadful array, 
Shame and confusion, remorse and dismay. 
Sickness and pain such as tongue cannot tell. 
Death that but ushers the soul into hell, — 
Look on the picture, friends, we importune : 
These are the fruits of the licenst saloon. 

Shame on the men who for money will grant 
License to curse happy households with want! 
Shame on the voters whose ballots have made 
Possible man-traps that spoil and degrade ! 
Shame on the commonwealth which has for gold 
Honor and virtvu\ yes. life itself sold I 

Vainly we call on our leaders to save: 
Mammon is heartless and cold as the gi-ave. 
Turning from man to the Helper divine 
Who our petitions will never decline 
Thousands of sad hearts in faith importune. 
''Save us. O God. fi-oni the licenst saloon!" 

Save! and for answer there comes a brave band. 
Noblest and truest and best of the land; 
Party and creed are forgotten; they come 
Strong in one i)ur])ose — to fighl foi' the home. 
God answers pi'ayei- and his pc()j)lc shall soon 
Kid our fair state of tln^ licenst saloon. 

THE DAYS OF YOKE. 

I'm gittin' old; my wavin' locks. 

Which once was brown an' streak! with red. 
Is turnin' kind o' dapple gray; 

Somethin's the matter with my head 



'^0 Goldeyirod 

So I can't recollect real well 

The things that I onee used to know ; 
An' seems as if I need my specs 

More'n what I did some yeai's a<j:o. 

.My old schoolmates ar.e scattered clean 

From Boston to the Golden Gate; 
An' times is changed, an' seems to me 

They're changin' faster still of late. 
When I was young we didn't set 

On cushioned pews an' listen at 
Some well-dressed college graduate 

Discnssin' (piestions, this an' that. 

Xo organ lifted up its voice. 

No choir led tlie hymns along. 
Xo carpet kivered up the floor. 

Xo clangin' bell rung loud an' strong. 
A modest little school-house stood 

A half a mile or so away. 
With home-made seats, unpainted floor, — 

It aint a -stand in' thei*(^ today — 

An' in that school-house I have set 

An' heard some scores of sermons preacht. 
They wasn't all Methodist, oh, no: 

I think of one jest now that screecht 
So loud you could have heard him plain 

A-settin' full two blocks away. 
An' grindin' coffee at the time. 

An' that on quite a windy day. 



Uoldciirod 31 

It used to seem to me them days 

'Twas sort o' easy to be good, 
AVhen preachers Adsited around 

An' acted like they thot I would; 
An ' somehow old as I be now 

It always kind o' seems to me 
That preachers as a gen'ral rule 

Is made of finer dust than we. 

An' then the singin' — them old songs 

I used to hear the preachers sing 
Is sweeter far to me today 

Than them that makes our churches ring. 
The preachin' — well it wa'n't so nice. 

So kind o' "drest up" one might say, 
As what we're used to liearin' now. 

But it w^as gospel anyway. 

An' truth is truth when it is told 

By humble vuil earned men the same 
As when it's preacht by college chaps 

With doable d hitch.t to theii' name. 
An' sinners used to find it so. 

An' git converted thru an' thru 
Without no paid evangelist — 

An' not backslide in summer, too. 

Sometimes I shut my eyes an' see 

By memory's soft an' flickerin' light, 

The folks an' things of long ago, 
An' musin' on what's now in sight, 

I say the times that's past an' gone 
Aint very much like they be now ; 



32 (hldenrod 

!>iil jest so Ihcy don't o-it no worse 
\\]\\ I'm contented anyhow. 



COMPENSATION. 

A blessing came to my life one day ; 

It was rare and rich, it was strangely s"weet : 
It was sent from heav'n to cheer my way. 

And make smooth a path for my weary feet. 

With g-ratefnl heart I Mceepted it. 

And with strength renewed jonrneyed gladly 
on : 
^fy life's hard road by that blessing lit 

AVas transformed and bright and the ronghness 
gone. 

The days passed peaeefnlly, swiftly by. 

Until happy wrecks into months had grown ; 
Then one sad morn — ah, I knew not why— 

I awoke to find my sweet blessino- flown. 

With teai's and prayei's long I songht in vain 
For the blest retnrn of that cherished boon ; 

Tho sore my heart it came not again 

At my earnest call. Still T plead and soon 

A strong, sweet faith sprang up in my heart. 

An assurance that God does all things well. 
A hope that he would his grace impart, 

Altho wlien and how 'twas not mine to tell. 



Goldenrod 33 

And deeper,, stronger that sweet faith grew, 
And my hope mounted hi.g'her day by day; 

I said. "God's ways are all jnst and true, 

Bless the Lord who gives and who takes away." 

And then the blessing that T had sought 

With such earnest prayer and with many tears. 

The blessing sweet that T long had thot 
Could not be mine in the coming years. 

Returned unsought to my life and oh, 
It was richer and sweeter and better far 

Than in the days of the long ago 

When it beamed on my Avay like a kindly star. 

Oh, mourning soul, with the eye of faith 

Pierce the clouds which lower so dark o 'erhead ; 

Then gloom and shadows will flee your path 
And 'twill glow with the light of hope instead. 

And some glad day in God's own good time, 
When your faith is tried and refined as goldy 

The blessing lost will by grace divine 
Be restored to you, yes, a hundred fold. 

JUDGE NOT. 

Do not judge other folks by appearance alone. 
'Tis a fault we all have and a grave one I own. 
Said a cat to a frog sitting near on a stump, 
''You can't tell by my looks just how far I can 
jump," 



34 Goldenrod 

'Tis not safe to be funny about a man's clothes. 
Or the size of his ears or the length of his nose ; 
It is what is inside that determines true worth, 
It takes digging to find the real "salt of the 
earth.'' 

Many times a sad blemish in figure or face 
But conceals from the careless onlooker a grace 
And a beauty of soul or a keenness of mind 
Which the careful observer could not fail to find. 

'Tis no sign that a bo}^ is a sure enough fool 
Just because he can't learn all you tell him at 

school ; 
He may have but one talent, but that one may be 
What the world has been waiting for ages to see. 

There's the son of your neighbor just over the 

way; 
"He's too lazy to wink," you once heard a man 

say, 
Then how quickly you checkt him and eagerly 

told 
Of his deeds which in your eyes were stampt pure 

gold. 

"Not a lazy hair on him, good sir," you replied; 
"He is bright as a dollar, he's trusty and tried; 
He is not what he seems; he's a hero, I say, 
Is that boy of my neighbor's just over the way." 

A.nd that little old maid with her queer, homely 
face, 



Goldenrod 35 

And a figure devoid of both beauty -and urape. 

Is an angel of merey to sufferers given; 

8he is not of the «^arrh — her reward is in heaven. 

Here's a man worth a million — and many a time 
We have heard it asserted e'en that is a crime— 
And the world ealls liim stingv and gi'asi)inf>' and 

cold, 
■lust because of his liounty it never was told. 

You can't tell it too often nor say it too loud — 
It applies to the man, it applies to the crowd — 
That you never can judge a man's acts as you 

ought 
Without love to interpret his motives and thot. 

I deny the assertioti that true love is blind: 
'^jove and light are synonymous terms to my mind. 
Put the passion of selfishness, cuiming, or greed. 
Masquerading as true love is blindness indeed. 

I'm reminded just here of a quaint Irish fi'iend 
Whose poor nose was afflicted with boils at the 

end. 
When I met him one day said I laughingly. ''Par. 
Do you think you are prettv with trimming's like 

that?" 

"An' if I were but you,'* Pat replied with a grin. 
"T would say that proboscis is ugly as sin ; 
But if T were myself, 'tis a beautiful nose. 
An' it looks for the world like a delicate rose." 



36 Goldenrod 

how very like Pat in our judgments are we! 
What a wonderful change for the better 'twould 

be 
If but love's golden rule we would always apply: 
Put yourself in his place, do as you'd be done by. 

CHILDHOOD DAYS. 

Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight, 
Make me a kid again just for tonight! 
Bareheaded, shoeless, and freckled and fat. 
Awkward and careless and pert little brat, 
Filling my apron with buffalo peas, 
Wading the Sandy and climbing the trees. 
Rapidly o'er me the long years have slid 
Since I was a happy and free country kid. 

Backward, flow backward, Tide of the years, 
Bringing the sounds of the farm to my ears ! 
Screaming of guineas and barking of dogs, 
Lowing of cattle and squealing of hogs, 
Clicking of cornplanters, fanning-mill's hum. 
Whistle of snipes and the woodpecker's drum, 
Cooing of pigeons and lone wild bird's cry. 
Loud, cheery greetings from friends passing by. 

I am so weary of living in town. 

Looking at narrow streets dusty and brown; 

Tired of all things that here greet my sight. 

Long I again for the country tonight ! 

Sliding down strawstacks with no one to chide, 



Goldenrod 37 

Up in the header-box taking a ride, 
Sucking raw eggs in behind the barn door, 
give me back the glad days of yore! 

Eating raw turnips so juicy and sweet, 
Nice tender onions sometimes for a treat. 
Building dirt houses while herding the cows. 
Lying at ease under widespreading boughs. 
Carrying water to men in the field, 
Hunting for gopher holes partly concealed. — 

there is a sweet, indescribable charm 
In being a kid living out on a farm ! 

It may be decreed that my life shall be passod 
In .some crowded city, but when at the last 

1 sleep in some quiet and shady retreat, 

I'd like a small stone very modest and neat. 
Rising above me these facts to record. 
In substance at least if not quite Avord for woi-d 
Here lies an old maid who once was a kid 
That lived in the country and died, so she did. 

AS OTHERS SEE ITS. 

FROM ONE VIEW POINT 

Who is it stepping high in air. 
In better clothes than others wear. 
Assumes a mien they do not dare 1 
The editor. 

Who is it lives on dainty fare, 
Abundant, rich beyond compare. 
Day after day, without a care f 
The editor. 



:^8 Go] dm rod 

Who is tlio man tliat coldly pries 
Our secrets out, aud straio-htway hies 
To Haunt them in the whole world's eyes? 
The editor. 

Who is it sends a heartless dun 
Almost before the year is "^one. 
And bids us cret a hustle on? 
' The editor. 

Who is it fills with ads his space. 
And wlien we kick, laut»-hs in our face 
And bids us ke^^p our proper place? 
The editor. 

Wlu) in his auto ]i\v^e and new. 
Rides out the countryside to view. 
And m-ikes us wish we had one, too? 
The editor. 

Who gets a "comp" to every show. 
And spends his evening-s on the go. 
And takes a trip each year or so? 
The editor. 

Who basks in Flattery's sweet smile. 
And hears his praises sung the Avhile 
lie blandly nuikes a handsome pile? 

The edit 01'. 

In short, who is the lucky chap 
That has the softest kind of snap 
And simply lives in Fortune's lap? 
The editor. 



Goldenrocl 39 



FROM ANOTHER 

Who is the man that meekly goes 
Thru summer heat and winter snows, 
With but one suit of shabby clothes? 
The editor. 

AVho is it as the days go by. 
(rulps down his cornbi'ead with a sigh 
And does not know the taste of pie.' 
The editor. 

Who is it hunts up all the news, 
Tho some their confidence refuse, 
And others openly abuse? 
The editor. 

Who is it waits thru weary years. 
Opprest with debt and torn with fears. 
Until his hard-earned cash appears.' 
The editor. 

Who gives full measure running o'er 
From out his wisdom's ripened store. 
And supplements it with some more? 
The editor. 

Who walks with weary step and slow. 
The ^vhile his rich subscribers go 
In automo))i1es to and fro? 
The editor. 

Who longs for time to rest or play. 
But says his heart's desire na3\ 
For work must keep the wolf away? 
The editor. 



40 Gohlrnrod 

Who is it toils from year to year, 
Without one word of kindly cheer. 
Or helping- hand when need is near? 
The editor. 

In short, who is the hickless chap 
For whom nobody cares a rap. 
T'nless it is his wife, mayhap? 
Tlie editor. 



SYMPATHY. 

This old world needs the inspiring: touch 
Of hands that have been pierct, I say; 

Jt needs the loving aid of such 

As have walkt a rou^h and weary way ; 

It needs the best thot of the thorn-prest brow . 

For these the old world is a-waiting- now. 

Those hands, tho rough with the toil of years, 
Nor white nor soft to stranger eyes, 

Can stay the flow of bitter tears. 

And can heal the grievous wound which lies 

So deep in the heart that I.ove's eye alone 

May trace where the shaft of ])ain lins t^own. 

And feet which follow the rock-strewn ways 

Of life acquire a swiftness oft 
Ne'er gained by walking all the days 

In the paths of joy so light and soft. 
And swiftly they run to the world's sore need, 
Becoming the bearers of life indeed. 



Ooldenrod 41 

A friendly face may be seamed and worn. 

The color gone, the features plain. 
But sympathy is heaven born, 

And if that in look and tone remain. 
The angels may envy the power to bless 
Such lives as are darkened with pain and distress. 

This old world starves tho the banquet board 
Be piled with all that wealth can buy. 

Till Love from out her scanty hoard 
Brings the loaf of honest sympathy. 

It feasts to the full and is satisfied. 

The loaf that is blest is thus multiplied. 

The world is chill tho 'tis wrapt with care 

In all that self-love can afford ; 
It shivers in the wintry air 

Until Love appears and gives the word 
To bring the best robe that her storerooms hol»^. 
The world then grows warm in its welcome fold. 

"Eejoice with them that rejoice," we read, 
And also ''weep with those who weep." 

And the}^ who have tasted jo.y indeed 

And who've anguish felt can this word keep. 

Oh, blessed are such unto whom 'tis given 

To draw this old world up to hope and heaven ! 



42 Goldenrod 



J. B. MONTAGUE. 

Gone home at the call of the Father 

To rest in the mansions of peace, 
To hear the "Well done" of the blaster 

And welcome the happy release 
From all of earth's labors and trials, 

From all of its pain and its care, 
To enter the glories of heaven 

And know of the bliss over there. 

Ah yes. it is well with our brother, 

Bnt oh, onr hearts bleed at the thot 
That he's gone from this earth life forever — 

He is dead, words with dread meaning 
fraught. 
Those eloquent lips now are silent, 

That brave, loving heart cold and still, 
Those busy hands folded and helpless. 

The peaceful brow jnillid and chill. 

We moui'u for a great leadoi- fallen. 

A lover of God and mankind, 
A friend of the weak and the tempted. 

Truth's champion feai'less of mind. 
From the east and the west conu.' the learned. 

The noble, the pious, the brave. 
From the north and the south they assembh- 

To mingle their tears at his grave. 



Goldenrod 43 

God pity us all in uur sorrow. 

And comfort the sad ones who weep 
For a kind, loving husband and father 

Now wrapt in death's iQug. silent sleep. 
And, Lord, when the shadows are lifted, 

When the waitiu"- and watching" are past. 
May we all hear Thee say. "Come up higher." 

And meet in Thy piesence at last. 



IF I'D ONLY TIIOT. 

If I'd only thot that the careless word 
Which I spoke that day would be overheard 
And a stricken heart caused a deeper pain 
By the long-closed wound being oped again — 
But alas! too late was the lesson taught. 
And I sadly sigh. "If I'd only thot.'' 

If I'd only thot that a word of cheer 

Might have helpt a soul when despair was near 

To maintain awhile the unequal strife. 

And to change the issue from death to life. — 

But I spoke no word with such succor fraught. 

And my sore heart cries, "If I'd only thot."* 

If I'd only thot, I would not have done 

The deed wliich another weaker one 

Found a stumbling block in his upward way : 

He has turned aside and gone astray. 

to think my hand has this havoc wrot I 

"If I'd only "thot, if I'd only thot.'" 



44 (rolrlrnrod 

If I'd only thot of the kindly deed, 
'Twoiild have helpt a neighbor in time of need, 
And O who shall say that the heavy load 
Under which he sank on life's weary road. 
Might not have been borne if I'd only sought 
To relieve the strain, ''if I'd only thot." 

When the books are balanet. the last aceonnt 
Is made knoAvn to all. and the just amount 
That is due to each by the Judge is read, 
Then may God forbid that to us be said, 
''Depart frnm me, for you did it not. 
The good yon mighf if you'd only thot." 

A GOOD TIME COMING. 

There's a good time coming, folks, 

A good time coming; 
And strife shall fail and war shall cease, 
And all the earth shall dwell in peace 

In the good time coming. 
Billiard halls and gambling dens, 

Saloons and kindred places 
AA^ill be as difficult to find 

As prehistoric races.- 

There's a good time coming, folks. 

A good time coming; 
The church shall rise in holy might. 
And fill the world with gospel light 

In the good time coming. 



Goldenrod 45 

Her members then will not desert 

Prayer meeting for a circus, 
Xor go to dances and play cards, 

But live with holy purpose. 

There's a good time coming, folks, 

A good time coming; 
Men w\\] not make election bets. 
And boys w^ill not smoke cigarets, 

In the good time coming. 
The dudes will all die off, I trow, 

And flirts lose their vocation, 
And knaves wnll seek another sphere, 

And good men rule our nation. 

Tliere's a good time coming, folks, 

A good time coming; 
And he who sins shall not go free. 
Nor wicked men exalted be. 

In the good time coming. 
A common standard fair and true 

Of virtue shall be lifted; 
And right Avill triumph over wrong, 

Oppression's cloud be rifted. 

There's a good time coming, folks. 

A good time coming; 
The w^omen all will vote — why notf 
And rivalries will be forgot 

In this good time coming. 
"There'll be no cranks to turn the world 

Upside down." Conceded: 
The world will then be right side up 

And cranks will not be needed. 



46 Ooldenrod 



PITYLTJR. 

T \\-n,s ill the slicd ;i-<'h()i)i)iir ;iii' Ms mad as mad 

could be. 
For we'd had a talk lliat morniu" an' she'd ii'o. 

the best of me : 
T was rather izive to naunin'. an' ^laria wa 'n 't no 

saint. 
So we jest k(^|)' on a iawiir for an hour, 'tis an' 

"taint. 
Till ;it last slie u'ot to twittiii" on some rattier solid 

facts. 
An' slie drawed a life size picture of my littb' 

ornarv aets 
Tntil T was jest a-liilin' an" \ wouldn't hear no 

more. 
So T lit nut for the woodshed tak'in' pains to 

slam th(^ door. 

Then T turned the leaves of iiunn'ry slowly back- 
ward, as it Avei'e. 

O'er the checkered married pathway we had trav- 
eled, me an' her: 

An' I thot 'twas like the see-saAv of an ill-mattdit. 
hig'h-stninf>- teani — 

She was full of no. T balky, or vice versey it 
w(nild seem. 

I I'emembered that first snmmei': we was livin' 
out of town 



Gfoldenrod 47 

'Bout a mile an' she insisted after she'd ben 

drivin' down 
Sev'ral times that it was fai'thei*. an' T ventured 

to explain 
That it wa'n't an' then T proved it. but I argued 

all in vain. 

Do yon think that slieVl believe me? No, sir; so 

T didn't speak 
To Maria very often for the best part of a week. 
AA^hen the Fourth came T was plannin' to Vaj by 

a field of corn. 
While Alaria had a notion we should go at early 

morn 
Into town an' take our dinner, spend the blessed 

livelong day, 
Standin' round an' celebratin' in the reg'lar 

time-worn way. 
Well, I said I wouldn't do it an' she said "Jest as 

you please !" 
AVith a tone an' look an' manner that is war- 
ranted to freeze; 

An' she walkt to town next mornin' an' I stayed 
to home an' plowed; 

Neither was for some time after sweeter than the 
law allowed. 

All the fall an' comin' winter we had some sar- 
castic chats, 

An' the spring an' early summer furnisht themes 
for several spats. 

So the gulf grew deeper, wider, that was keepin' 
us apart — 



48 Ooldenrod 

It's an easy thing to qufirrel when you fairly g^et 

a start. 
Well, the baby come at ( "hi-istnias an' we both was 

proud an' glad, 
An' the neighbors all insisted that she lookt jest 

like her dad, 

An' Maria was too hiisy thinkin' u|) a proper 

name 
To deny the aeensatiou or to fnss about tlie same. 
An' the youngster grv'W an' Moui'isht till the flow-' 

ers come again 
An' Maria named hei' Phyllis — there was some- 
thin' doin* then ! 
I declared I wouldn't have it, but Maria said I 

should — 
When Maria puts hei- foot doA\ii she proposes to 

make good — 
An' I stormed, polled fun. an' ai'gued till we both 

of us was hoarse 
An' the baby's name between us. as a matter 

quite of course. 

Was a bone of fierce contention we was pretty 

apt to gnaw 
When they wa'n't no other fodder layin' round 

that we could chaw. 
Time passed by until the lassie was as cute as cute 

could be, 
Bright an' smart as any cricket an' her age was 

half past three. 
But on this midsummer mornin, 'twa'n't her 

name, it was a dress 



Croldenrod 49 

That provoked the Jiot discussion of an* hoiii- 

more or less : 
For IMaria spoke of white goods an' my fav'i'ite 

color's blue. 
Like most all her other dresses, an' they were be- 

eomin' too. 

As 1 mentioned to ^faria. tiiat since Betsey's 

iiair was red. — 
(I had never called hei- Phyllis, used my mother's 

name instead) 
Hut right there ]Maria differed an' my speech was 

at an end. 
And she opened up Ium- batteries till 'twas useless 

to contend ; 
Worst of all, each woi'd she uttered was the sober 

stingin' truth 
Such as hadn't been put to me since I was a cal- 
low youth; 
An' I knowed it an' slie knowed it, an' as I have 

said before, 
I took refuge in the w(K)dshed after I had 

slammed the door. 

Ev'i-y minute that I stayed there 1 was gettin' 

madder still. 
An' I says, "If Betsey gi-ows up with a temper 

an' a will 
Like Maria's, I would rathei- see her in an earl> 

grave ! 
xVn' I wouldn't do the speakin' if a word of mine 

could save." 



50 Golden rod 

Yes, I said that — God forgive me! — an' I further 

said, "I'm done. 
An' this family hereafter will contain thi-ee minus 

one. 
Tliey'll do well enoug'h without me. an' I've heard 

the Avorld is wide. 
Reckon we'll get thru it somehow without walkin' 

side by side." 

So r struck the ax in (leei)ly with an extra partm" 

whack, 
An' I turned an' left the woodshed thinkin' nevei* 

to come back. 
An' I started down the pathway leadin' off there 

to the right. 
When I heerd a scream of tei-ror an' I turned 

right back in affright. 
Turned to see ]\[aria standin' in the open kitchen 

door. 
With a look upon her featni'cs I had never s(^en 

before : 
An' her woi'ds came shai-j) an' ringin'. strikin" 

r)n nw heart like lead — 
"(Jet a doctor. l)abe is dyini" In an agnoy of 

dread 

1 obeyed: but all that happened for a long time 
after seems 

Like a hazy, muddled niix-np such as sometimes 
comes in dreams. 

There was neighboi'S comin', uoin' muff'led foot- 
steps, muffled tones. 



Goldenrod 51 

From the little darkened ehaniber muffled sobs 
an' piteous moans. 

Over all a settled sadness an' a great heart-crush- 
in' gloom. 

Thru it all the doctor's verdict soundin' like a 
knell of doom. 

I aint posted on the Scriptures like the preacher 
over here. 

An' there's several propositions that to my mind 
aint quite clear: 

But there's one pint of the doctrine Pm prepared 

to say is so — 
There is such a place as hades, for I've been there 

an' I know. 
Did you ever watch your dearest driftin' slowly 

out of sight, 
Growin' ev'ry day moi-e lovely as she neared the 

glory light — 
Why that dear child's auburn ringlets made n 

halo round her head: 
I'd a floored a man instanter if he'd hinted it 

was red — 
Watch her driftin' with your heartstrings slow- 
ly tore out one by one, 
Watchin', waitin'. dumb an' helpless, till the 

tragedy is done. 

An' on top of all that sorrow feel 'twas ev'ry bit 

your due. 
What you in your blind, hot anger almost prayf'd 

might come to you ? 



5i^ Goldenrod 

If Toil liave. yon 11 imderstaiid me when I say 

I suffered some; 
Days an' weeks an' months of torture, an' the 

worst was yet to eome. 
With Thr holidays approa^-hin' an" her 'oirthday 

nearii:" fast. 
An' Doe said if she should linorer, it would surely 

be her last. 
An "Maria — ^aint there somethin' in the Bible 

"btrnt a sword 
Pierein' thru the heart of Mary! Well. I reckou 

that's the word 

To describe it — jest a lettin" out her heart's biooii 

drop by drop: 
You ean't sound a m other "s an^ruish for there 

-■ P- 
Tt - - jomin'. Doe had ben there 

^l^h'zi'i the rlrst. but now it seemed like it must 

be the ektsin" fight. 
Sweet an" pure as any angeL frail an* beautifui 

an* fair. 
Lay th- s if half sleepin* an* the doctor 

ws: ere. 

Wife an me a-listenin*. waitin* for a word, a 

look, a sign 
i^ the ehanee we felt was eomin — if a hundred 

years was mine 

Tea to lire, I'd not forget it^ — but the doctor give 
a starL 



Goldenrod 53 

Fplt liei pulse an' toueht her f<»i'ehead. laid his 

hand upon her heart. 
Then we heard his voice but scarcely understood 

his words somehow : 
'You may keep your Christmas present, for (rod 

does'nt want her now.'* 
How or when or why it happened we can't neither 

of us say. 
But we found ourselves a-standin' liki^ we'd stood 

our weddin' day. 
An' I heerd myself a-sayin'. "Little Phyllis will 

not die." 
An ']\[aria says. ""Our Betsey will be better by 

an* by." 

I call that my second marriatre. tho ^Maria nevei' 
knew 

'Bout that tantrum in the woodshed an' what 
I proposed to do : 

But we'd both learned sev'ral lessons in a miy:hty 
costly school. 

An' the lessons that you learn there aint forgot- 
ten as a rule. . 

^Taria says our little daughter is the picture of 
her pa : 

T thank God that she's a-growin* ev'ry day more 
like hei ma. 



5'4: Goldenrod 



BOAST VS. BOOST. 

A farmer with a heavy load 

Was driving into town. 
He struck a bad place in the road, 

The wheels sank slowly down. 
The farmer urged his horses strong, 

They strove with brawn and pluck 
To move the heavy load along, 

But it was firmly stuck. 
And people came as people will 

The man's mischance to view. 
And some askt questions, others still 

Told what they thot they knew 
About the proper way to deal 

With loads in such a plight. 
And boasted of their strength and skill 

In putting w^rong things right. 
Until someone without a word 

Put shoulder to a wheel. 
When all as by one impulse stirred. 

With neighborly good will, 
Brot poles and blocks and pushed and pried 

And tugged with might and main. 
Until the wagon moved and stood 

On solid ground again. 
A homely lesson all may heed — 

Learn it who need it most — 
Tis better in a neighbor's need. 

To boost than 'tis to boast. 



GolrU'nrod '^^ 

T hold it argues not of ill 

That some are "clown in luek;" 
'Tis not thru weak nor wicked will 

That some poor souls are "stuck." 
Rut even thus 'tis not our sphere 

To idly (piestion why ; 
The work at hand is now and here. 

And our part is to ti-y 
To move the load with pole or spade 

Or ropes, no matter what. 
The only measure of our aid 

The deepness of the rut. 
So when your neighbor finds the load 

Too heavy for his team. 
Don't tell him that some othei' road 

A better way would seem ; 
Do not remind him that your horse 

Could pull him out with ease. 
And try to make a swap because 

You've got a chance to squeezp : 
Don't boast about the way you drive. 

But come down off your roost. 
Throw off your coat, roll up your sleeves, 

And grab a pole and boost. 

EASTER. 

it was morning in Judea, 

And the beams of rising sun 
Gently toucht the sad. pale faces 

Of the women pressing on 
Toward the tomb wherein the body 

Of the Master had been laid. 



56 (jroldenrod 

Tlu^y h«ul lioped and prayed and trusted. 
All was over — he was dead. 

Oh. the angnish of that hour 
Human lips cannot express — 

Lio'ht and hope and love all gathered 
111 that sepulcher's embrace! 

Scarcely spoke they to each other 
Tho their troubled thots were one. 

Till one said in trembling" accent, 
"Who will roll aAvay the stone?" 

But they lookt and lo ! an angel 
Clad in garments long and white. 

Sat upon the stone and speaking- 
While they trembled in affright. 

Said, " Wh}^ seek ye for the living 
'Mong the chambei-s of the dead? 

Do you not His words remember? 
He is risen as He said." 

Risen ! oh, the wondrous rapture 

Of that first glad Easter day 
AVhen the women ran with tidings 

That the stone was rolled away ! 
But what import has the message 

Coming down thru all the years? 
Nineteen centuries have vanisht 

With their laughter and their tears. 
Nineteen hundred years of toiling. 

Warring, waiting, weal and woe. 
And what means this tale the women 

Told with joy so long ago? 



Goldenrod 5^ 

See thnt convipt. He is seiitoiicl 

Hear him. as with bated breath. 
Fearfully he counts the seconds 

That are hast'ning him to death. 
Hark! A step outside! He trembles. 

Waits the fated word to hear. 
When, instead, the welcome message, 

'^You are pardoned," greets his ear. 
Ask him what it means, that pardon. 

And his glad reply Avill be. 
As he leaves the gloomy prison, 

"It means everything to me." 

Here's a blind man. Years have gone since 

He beheld the welcome light; 
But a skillful surgeon finds him 

And restores to him his sight. 
Ask him what that operation 

Means to him, and you'll agree 
With his ready, grateful answer, 

"It means everything to me." 
Down the dusty country roadway 

Comes a horse which, mad with fear. 
Gallops wildly toward a farm house. 

There are children playing near; 

All but one have seen their danger 
And have safety sought in flight; 

When, too late, she knows her peril. 
She is paralyzed with fright. 

But a strong hand grasps her firmly. 
Hurls her like a toy aside, 



^yS Golclenrod 

And her mother's arms receive her 
Safe, niihnrt. who else had died. 

Ask that mother wliat the meaning 
Of that daring' deed may be, 

And the answer, tearful, smiling. 
"It means everything to me." 

So. I think, that old, old story 

Has a meaning plain to see. 
And humanity may answer, 

"It means everything to me." 
Pardon, freedom, light, salvation, 

Hope and peace and life and love, 
Ev'ry blessing Christ has proinist 

In this life and that above. 
Yes, the grave has lost its terror. 

So that we may boldly say, 
"Death was vanqnisht. heaven opened. 

When that stone was rolled away." 

IMXIX' FVVx THE rorxTRY. 

I'm a-pinin' fur the country w^here I lived in days 

of yore, 
Pur the ol' farm an' the dugout that I'll never 

see no more, 
Fur the queer ol' thatch-roof stable where us 

youngsters used to play. 
Pur the pig pen on the hillside wliere I fed the 

hogs each day. 
Pur the eottonwoods an' sumachs with their 

homely, spranglin' boughs, 



Golden rod ^9 

Fur the draws, lagoons, an* prairies where I used 
to herd the coavs. 

I'm a-pinin- fiii' the country with its bracin', 
balmy air. 

With its big substantial cornfields an' its pas- 
tures broad an' fair; 

With its temptin' watermelons an' its luscious 
garden sass. 

Cabbages an' beets an' onions, raters, squash an' 
sparrow-grass : 

With its big, round, yaller punkins. jest the stuff 
fur ma kin' pie. 

An' its sugar-cane so juicy, shootin' up so slim 
an' high. 

I'm a pinin' fur the country, with its silmple 
homely life. 

Free from fashion's fuss an' folly an' its vain, 
distractin' strife: 

With its humble, (jniet duties an' its sternei- use- 
ful toil. 

An' its peaceful, cozy firesides, strangers to the 
angry broil : 

With its spellin' schools an' picnics, Avith its 
sociables an' teas. 

With its friendly, all-day visits an' its cheerful 
quiltin' bees. 

I'm a pinin' fur the country. Yes, I know folks 

nowadays 
Turn their noses way up yonder at plain, ploddin' 

country ways. 



fiO fioldenrod 

An' they talk about tlie "hayseeds," an' imaofine 
they are ente 

AYhen they jolve about their maimers an' some 
other thino-s to boot ; 

Bnt fer g-rit an* independence an' fur sober com- 
mon sense 

I'll take my ehanee with the "hayseeds" 'stead o' 
t'othei' sich^ the fence. 

Sometimes when I think of heaven with its streets 
of shinin' g'old, 

dates of pearl an' walls of jasper an' the other 
things we're told. 

Seems to me that I'd be homesick fur tlie coun- 
try even there. 

An' T like to think that mebby in that woi'hl so 
bright an' fair. 

There are little country places an' that I'll have 
one o' them 

Jest alongside of the city of the new Jerusalem. 

TWENTY-ONE. 

The fii'st pail' of boots, I confess, is a treasure: 
And when one arrives at the age of thirteen. 

The heart feels a thrill of such exquisite i)leasure 
As the young life has never before known, I 
ween. 

The school girl regards a long dress as the climax 
Of all that is lovely, delightful, and sweet. 

And when her first beau tells her she is a darling. 
Imagines, fond miss, that her. bliss is. complete. 



Goldoirod 61 

The glad days of childhood, I love to recall them, 
With joy I reflect on the pleasures of youth ; 

Men cannot forget when sore trials befall them 
In life's sunny morn God was good of a truth. 

And yet there's a time when the heart more re- 
joices 
Than ever it did in the days that are gone. 
When the deeds of the past and the hope for the 
future 
Are summed up alike in the word twenty-one. 

THE CRANK. 

As this wonderful world I go traveling thru. 
I discover some things quite engaging and new : 
But the object which last my attention has claimed 
Is one at which critics their arrows have aimed 
With more or less vengeance since history was 

blank, — 
I allude to the creature which men style a crank. 

I askt of a neighbor while chatting one day. 

How he liked the new minister over the way. 

He said, "Well, I think that he preaches too 
much 

Against dancing and horse racing, church fairs 
and such ; 

He means it all right, but you know, my good 
friend, 

That such talk is quite likely some folks to of- 
fend. 



62 Goldenrod 

In fact, for with you I'll be perfectly frank, 
I'm iTU'Hned to believe he's somewhat of a crank." 

I know a young lady, fair, modest, refined. 
With a neat, graceful form and a rare brilliant 

mind. 
She is gentle and sweet as the first breath of 

morn, 
A friend of the poor, of the sick, the forlorn — 
But this same charming lady refuses to smile 
On the fragrant cigar, and regardless of style. 
She dares to assert her opinions point blank, 
And her suitors rejected pronounce her a crank. 

A young man with a salary more by a third 
Than that of his fellow clerks one day was heard 
To declare that he could not afford to expend 
It in folly and rioting, but he did intend 
To have for his work a neat sum in the bank. 
And of course, his acquaintances call him a crank. 

And in fact, anyone who presumes to ignore 
Am^ path which the people have trodden before. 
And who dares for himself a new passage to blaze. 
Need not think to be cheered with approval and 

praise. 
For 'tis human to jealoush^ cling to our past. 
And if good or if ill to stay by till the last : 
The reformer must needs have himself then to 

thank. 
If liis fellows oppose him and dub him a crank. 



Goldcnrorl C3 

Bnt the crankiest man that this world ever saw 
Is the one who insists that the hio^h license law 
Is a sin and a shame, and the sonls of our youth 
Are more precious than gold for our school fund 

forsooth : 
The man who insists that the question this fall 
That ought to be settled for once and for all 
Is "How long shall the legalized rum traffic 

sway 
Our rulers and dictate the laws we obe.y?'' 

Xow this subject of cranks I have studied with 

care. 
And have reacht the conclusion that all should be- 
ware 
Of fighting 'gainst sin. for 'tis well undei'stood 
That it is unpopular quite to be good : 
So do not with Daniel the daring take rank. 
Because if you do folks will call vou n crank. 



OONTEXTP]!). 

Altho we may not tread the paths 

Which lead to heights of deathless fame, 

Altho our modest words and deeds 

The world's applause may never claim. 

Yet we may be as truly great 
As any crowned head of earth ; 

We can be good. To godless men 
The highest fame is little worth. 



64 Gohlenrorl 

Who is the truly great? The one 
Alone whom grateful millions pi-aise 

On whose achievements nations h)ok 
In admiration and amaze? 

No, verily. But rather he 

Who seeks approval from above: 

Whose daily life howe'er obscure. 
Reflects the light of truth and love. 

God gives to each a work to do. 

And some he calls to missions high: 
To others gives the plain comnumd, 
"Toil on but in obscurity.'* 

And tho our part may liumble be 
Yet 'tis a consolation sweet 

To know that God's most gracious plan 
Without us would not be complete. 

Tho realms of poetry and song. 

Of art, which some declare divine. 
May never grant a diadem 

T^pon ovu' brows to proudly shine, — 

We need not envy those who dwell 
Amid such splendors, for, the One 

Who meted out our lowly tasks 
Calls us co-workers with his Son. 

Oh. blessed work which God assigns. 

However humble it may be ! 
Oh, blessed worker! Your reward 

Is lasting as eternity. 



Goldenrod 65 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Flasht the news across the waters, 

Over hill and vale and plain : 
Ejiglaud's mourning sons and daughters 

Bade us catch the sad refrain. 
And the south wind bore the tidings. 

Sobbing thru the groves of green ; 
And the north wind from its hidings 

'Mid the icebergs' silver sheen, 
Brot the cold and cruel message. 

Pilling loving hearts with dread. 
As it moaned out in its passage, 
"One more numbered with the dead." 

One who saw with keener vision 

Than his fellows, and who heard 
Strains of music, sounds elysian, 

In the softest breeze that stirred. 
One who caught the radiant glory 

Beaming from the brow of truth, 
P^ashioned it in song and story 

So that age and hopeful youth. 
Conning eagerly the pages 

Glowing with its beauteous light. 
Might be blest and coming ages 

Bask in its reflection bright. 

One who all unchallenged entered 
Realms where others dared not tread ; 



66 G old PI) rod 

One in whom a nation centered 

Love and honor — he is dead. 
Laurel crowned, beloved sincerely, 

For his thots of noble Avorth, 
Given freely, prized so dearly, 

Making melod}^ on earth. 
Is he dead? Ten thousand voices 

Swelling like a river's flow. 
Answer and the heart rejoices 

As it hears that answer — no ! 

True the earthly house has crumbled, 

But the inmate is not there ; 
Fleshly pride may be sore humbled. 

Free the spirit is as air. 
Gazing on the cold, still features, 

Thinking of the shroud and pall, 
We of little faith, poor creatures, 

AA^hisper doubting, ''Is this all?" 
But the voice of inspiration. 

Ringing strong and sweet and clear. 
Brings us hope and consolation — 
"He is ris'n, he is not here." 

In the grateful heai'ts of many 

Whom his Avords of love have blest, 
(iracious words whose unfeigned merit 

Future ages will attest, 
Ay, and in some realm supernal. 

Far removed from mortal ken, 
Mid the glory grand, eternal, 

Where the ransomed enter iu, — 



Goldenrod ^7 

Let us hope in yonder city 

Where earth's pain no heart pang gives. 
He whom we delight to honor, 

Tennyson, the poet, lives. 

Ay, he lives! Earth's kingdoms weaken. 

Totter, fall, and pass away; 
Change is writ on all things earthly, 

Fairest blossoms must decay. 
E'en the starry host of heaven, 

Circling worlds whose grateful light 
Thru the eons has been shining. 

May be quencht in endless night. 
But that soul, stampt with the image 

Of its Maker and endowed 
With such gifts, so rare, so precious. 

Lives immortal as its God. 



ADVICE. 

Now Josh, set down an' listen to me: 

I'm bound to have my say, 
An' then ef you will make a fool o' yourself, 

'Twunt be my fault anyway ! 

Ef there is one thing that I mortally hate. 

It's to see a young chap like you 
A-hangin ' around outside of a church 

Until after preaehin's thru. 
An' then sneakin' in to find out who's there 

An' to see who goes home with who. 



fi8 Goldrnrod 

Las' Sunday iiio'ht, Obadiah Potts 

Mest barely turned sixteen) 
Popped into the entry ez we come out — 

Yer uncle an' me I mean — 
An' after while he passed our house 

AVith that old maid. ]\Iiss Bean. 

Now Josh, ef you've "'ot a spark o' sense. 

You'll never do that I know — 
Land sakes ! a woman o' thirty-five 

With a sixteen-year-old beau ! 
An' snailin' along — with my fifty years 

[ don't go half that slow! 

Thi'u there was Smith's clerk, young Xed Van 
Dyne, 

He set in front o' me. 
An' soon ez the preacher said amen. 

Tie whispered to Bessie Lee, 
An' slie nodded yes — comin' home 

We passed 'em, 'twas moonlight, you see. 

I don't say a word agin Ned Van Dyne, 
He's a well-behaved, worthy young man; 

An' Brother Smith says he wouldn't ask 
For a trustier chap than Van. 

I like the young fellow well enough, 
I)Ut 1 don't approve his plan. 

.Joshua Stiggins. ef I ever know. 
When you've went to church alone. 

Of your sidlin' up to any gal 
An' asking to see her home, 



Goldenrod 6-^ 

I'll spank you as sure as my naiiit^ is Stul^hs 
Ef you be nearly urown. 

VA' you want to walk home with a nice younii' L;-a' 

From church or anywhere. 
Jest g'o to her father's house like a man 

An' ask her right out square 
Xot only to bring her away from church 

But also to take her there. 

There's another thing: Don't go snailin' along 

Like you was plum beat out^ — 
I 'low 'twould 'a made an Injun laugh 

To see that soft young sprout 
An' old Miss Bean las' Sunday night 

They thot 'twas nice no doubt. 

I don't believe that they went a rod 

While we was goin' ten; 
(An' yer uncle's got the roomatiz 

An' I've got corns) an' then 
They'd stop dead still an' gab awliile 

An' then go on again. 

I s'pose you'll think I'm cranky. Josh; 

I can't help it ef I be — 
Young folks haint overstocked with sense, 

But ef you live to see 
These things with fifty-year-old eyes. 

You'll look at 'em jest like me I 



70 Ooldenrod 



A LITTLE CHILD. 

It happened in our church 

One Easter long ago. 
White blossoms ev'rywhere — 

Great pyramids of snow 
On organ, desk, and stand, 

And on the altar rail 
Were festooned lovely flowers 

Of all kinds, bright and pale. 
And on the walls there hung 

In lettering of gold, 
Those precious Bible texts 

Which never can grow old, 
Which tell of hope and love. 

Of life beyond the grave. 
And mercy for the lost 

Whom Jesus died to save. 

An arch of blue and gold 

With pure white lilies wrot 
Proclaimed, "The Lord Is Ris'n," 

And held the eye and thot. 
The church was full that day. 

A sweet and holy calm 
Seemed brooding o'er the place. 

The softly chanted psalm, 
The pastor's reverent voice, 

Low-toned, but strong and clear, 



Ooldenrod 

In supplication raised. 
Fell soothing on the ear. 

Then all the people rose 
And heartily they sang, 

'Rejoice for he is risen," 
Until the old church rang. 

The second verse was sung, 

When down the aisle there came 
A man with handsome face, 

Erect and stalwart frame. 
And glancing not to right 

Or left he moved along, 
Tumindful of the flowers, 

The people, and the song. 
Into the foremost pew 

Pie sank with easy grace. 
Then claspt his hands and bowed 

On them his pale, stern face. 
The music ceast. Unmoved 

He sits the service thru. 
While memory presents 

His whole past life to view. 

Before the altar there 

His sainted mother stood 
And consecrated him, 

A babe in arms, to God ; 
And in that choir-loft 

He raised his youthful voice, 
And with glad lips and pure 

He, too, had sung, "Rejoice." 



72 Goldenrod 

And every Sabbath mom 

For years had found him there, 
And he to manhood grown 

Still sought this plaee of prayer. 
The tempter came to him 

And one dark day he fell. 
Then twenty bitter years 

Passed in a felon's cell. 

But yesterday the word 

Of pardon set him free. 
Some spell had drawn him here. 

And tho he did not see. 
He felt the cold, hard gaze 

Of each unfriendly eye. 
For many knew him who 

Would, doubtless, pass him by ; 
Pass with averted face 

Him whom they used to know 
As playmate and as friend 

So many years ago. 
The thot that his own hand 

Had raised this barrier high 
O'ercame him and he wept. 

His tears fell silently. 

But not unnoticed quite ; 

A winsome little miss 
Of summers three, whose lips 

Were surely made to kiss, 
A witching little sprite 

With eyes of liquid blue. 
Had seen and with light step 



Goldenrod '^•^ 

She to the stranger tiew. 
Her arms entwined his .neck, 

He heard her softly say, 
"Please, Mister Man, don't cry, 

'Cause this is Easter day." 
He claspt her to his heart. 

Content she nestled there. 
At sermon's close there came 

To meet and greet the pair 

Both old and young who else 

Had passed him coldly by, 
But that their hearts were toucht 

By that child's plea, ''Don't cry." 
Strong hands graspt his and words 

Of cheer and promise made 
His heart rejoice, and then 

"God bless you, sir," they said. 
The clouds of dark despair 

And sorrow rolled away. 
And hope and peace returned 

To him that Easter day. 
And passing out he said, 

"The Lord is risen indeed." 
And some one quoted this: 

"A little child shall lead." 

POLITICS IN THE PULPIT. 

Our minister says last Sunday night, 

"Saloons are dens of evil, 
rnmitigated nuisances 

And workshops of the devil." 



74 Goldenrod 

And that's what I say m.yself, but thinks I, 

I guess the preacher's forf^ettin' 
That some of the brethren don't think that way 

Or he wouldn't said that in meetin'. 

Our minister he is a eoUeofe chap, 

He aint been loni-' in the city. 
And don't know all of his members yet, 

And sometimes he is pretty 
Apt to say things that hit 'em hard; 

'Taint likely that he knows it. 
Or he wouldn't punch payin' members so — 

At least I wouldn't s'pose it. 

Another thing the minister says : 

"Don't sign a saloon petition, 
Nor vote for a board that will license one, 

Mj^ brethren, on no condition. 
The man that does either of those two things 

Will get to heaven no quicker 
Than the fellow that stands behind the bar, 

And passes out the liquor." 

You ought to have seen old Uncle Jinks 

And Elder Bates a-wringin' 
And twistin' like they was in pain- — 

I couldn't keep from grinnin'. 
Thinks I, he's preachin' facts, no doubt, 

But I'm afraid the stranger 
Is puttin' by these bold remarks 

His salary in danger. 



Goldenrod 75 

He ralkt for more than half an hour 

'Bout whisky, and how awful 
It was for men to license it 

And make the traffic lawful. 
He showed how weak the arguments 

Presented in its favor; 
The w^ay he disht the whole thing up 

Give it a nauseous flavor. 

Thinks I to myself, if I'd ever gone 

Around with a saloon petition. 
On hearing this I would boAv my head 

In the very dust of contrition. 
Ypu wouldn't catch me a-bravin' it off 

Like old man Jinks down yonder, 
Or bridlin 'up like Elder Bates — 

Don't they feel cheap, I wonder. 

Just at this point the minister says, 

''The party that licenses evil. 
Let its name and its record be what they may, 

Is in partnership with the devil. 
And the man who votes with that party is 

A participant in its acts. 
And also in the results of the same, 

And none can gainsay these facts." 

That made me mad. Our minister 

Had ought to be aware 
That polities aint pulpit goods, 

And has no business there. 



"6 Goldenrod 

Says I to my wii'(\ "'Tliat college chap 
Is a crank, that's what he is. 

And if he is short on his salary, 
"Twill be no one's fault but his.'' 



BEAUTY'S CLARIxVET. 

We was sittin' in the band room 

Spinnin' yarns as band boys will, 
An' we'd all told onr 'xperienee 

'Cept the leader, bashful Bill. 
Took some time to ^it him started, 

Rnt at last he struck his gait, 
An' he give us this here story. 

An' I guess he told it straight. 

"Franklin Graniiej- was as homely 
As the Federal law allowed, 

An' his lack of downright beauty 
Would be noticed in a crowd. 

He was awkward, lank, an' bashful- 
Why if any girl would speak 

To that kid, he'd blush an' stutter 
For the best part of a week. 

Franklin lived out in the country, 
But on ev'ry Wednesday night 

He was right on hand for practice ; 
Then he'd nearly die of fright 

Goin' home, for he was scary, — 
Couldn't help it, I suppose — 



GoJdpnrorl "^"^ 

But the band boys Avhen they knew it 
Used him rouo'h. Til tell yon those. 

Runnin 'thru our human nature 

Is a mighty measly streak 
That makes game of what in otliers 

We consider to be weak. 
An' we workt it t.) the limit 

In the case of that there boy, 
Till his cup wa'n't jest exactly 

Full an' bnbblin' o'er with joy. 

AVe was all as mean as pi sen. 

But the one particular thorn ' 
In Frank's flesh was Mike O'Hara. 

Him that played the tenor horn. 
All that Irish wit could muster 

In the way of jibe an* fling 
Seemed to be at Mike's disposal. 

An' young Granger felt their sting. 

Quit? AVell, now, that very question's 

Come to me more times than one. 
An' the reasons that he didn't 

Is his own, all said an' done; 
But I've got my own opinion 

An' I'll pass it on to you, 
Tho, of course, I may be lookin' 

From an anglin' pint o' view. 

First place, Franklin wa'n't no quittei'- - 
He had jinedthe band to stay — 



78 Goldenrod 

He was mortal fond o' music, 
An' I tell you he could play! 

Didn't seem to make much difference 
What he tackled drum or horn — 

He was one o' them musicians 

That aint made, they're simply born. 

An' I think, too, that O'Hara 

Had him stuffed with the idee 
There would somethin' dreadful happen 

If he left the band. You see 
There wa'n't no one in the country 

Anywhere that we could get 
That was even half Frank's equal 

For to play the clarinet. 

We was havin' extra practice 

As 'twas near Memorial day, 
An' it seemed as if O'Hara 

Couldn't find enough to say. 
He had rung all sorts of changes 

On poor Granger's latest scare, 
Now he called to him at parting, 

As Frank's foot was on the stair: 

' Farewell, Beauty, may the roses 

On yer swate phiz niver fade ! ' 
Franklin's sallow cheeks tiusht crimson. 

An' he answer hotly made, 
'Mike, some day I'll make you sorry 

If you've got a lick o' sense.' 
^Mike's grimace was simply killin' 

An' the laugh at Frank's expense. 



Golderirod 79 

Now the rest o' this here story 

Jest leakt out in cliff 'rent ways. 
An' we didn't git the details 

Straight an' sure for sev'ral days. 
Thei'e is othei* things than murder 

That leaks out sometimes, you know. 
An' I think it is a mighty 

Wise provision makes it so. 

Franklin struck out right across lots, 

Hoppin' mad — don't blame him none — 
Crossin' roads an' leapin' fences. 

Till he reacht a little run 
Spanned at that place by a foot bridge. 

Here he paused, and blank dismay 
Took the place of ragin' anger. 

For a board was givin' way 

Whore the stream was at its deepest 

An' was swayin' 'neath the tread 
Of a child, a tiny toddler, 

Gazin' at the waves in dread. 
Like a flash tlie situation 

Filled young Granger's tortured mind. 
If the kid would come straight forward. 

It would safety soonest find. 

Should he call? Spring to its rescue? 

No : if startled it would fall, 
An' its life hung in that balance — 

Franklin couldn't swim at all. 



80 Goldenrod 

Off the road, no time to summon 
Help, 'twas clearly up to him 

To attract the tot's attention, 
Take the ehaiice however slim. 

Weak an' sick with fear, an' tremblin' 

Franklin raised his clarinet 
To his lips, an' them that knows him 

Aint at all afraid to bet 
'F ever soul was put in music 

That's what Fi'anklin Grang-er did 
AVheii he felt that he was playin' 

Fo]' the life o' that there kid'. 

Soft an 'loAv an' pure an' tender 

As a bab}^ angel's prayer, 
Cooin', ripplin', gurgiin', winnin', 

Float the sweet tones on the air, 
An' the little shaver listens, 

Starts at once to meet the sound, 
Straight an' steady, nearer, nearer, 

Till he reaches solid ground. 

When the danger was all over, 

An' the little runaway 
Had been duly kist an' scolded. 

An' the doin's o' the day 
Had been properlv exploited 

Much to Granger's great distress. 
Mike O'Hara paid his tribute 

To the hero's nobleness; 



GohlpnroS 81 

F-[andsome is that handsome docs." byes, 

An' if that's a-^oin' to stand. 
Then there aint no use denyin' 

(Jranpfer's fairly beat the band. 
That he saved my baby brother. 

I'm not loikely to forget ; 
An' I'm anything but sorry. 

Thanks to Reautv's clarinet.' 



THE SPEAKING DEAD. 
(For Memorial Day.) 

Over the graves of the fallen today 

Flowers are scattered and tears are shed : 
Mingling together the Blue and the Gray 

Honor the mem'ry of heroes dead. 
Comrades recount their brave deeds with a siu'li. 

Tell of defeats and of victories won. 
i^peak of the hour when they, too, must die. 

Pray that their duties may be well done. 
Kastern hills answei- to fai' western plains. 

Northern heights call and Southland replies: 
"'Mourn for the fnllen: sing soft, sad refrains 

Over each grave whei-f a soldiei' lies." 

l^isten! A voice like the clear tones of youth. 

Pure and sweet as the breath of morn. 
Earnest and bold as a herald of truth. 

Gently from fai' to oui- ears is borne 
Galmly it speaks and our grief is allayed. 

Tenderly pleads and its prayer is heard. 



82 Gohloirod 

Urges and warns and onr best thots are swayed. 

Strangely responsive our hearts are stirred. 
Solemn, mysterious voice of the dead, 

Speaking to us as the years roll by! 
Humbly, devoutly with uncovered head. 

Listen and learn for the time draws nigh. 

"Comrades, we labor and struggle no more; 

Fearlessly, proudly, our lives we gave; 
l^ravely you fought till the conflict was o'er. 

Suffering, toiling, your cause to save. 
Oh, by the mem'ry of camp and of field, 

Tjong, weary march and dread prison pen. 
Oh. by the mem'ry of principles sealed 

With our own life blood in glade and in glen — 
Honor the right and let ti'iith be your guide. 

Justice your watciiword and strong defense. 
Mercy your talisman trusty and tried; 

rh(n-ish all o'oodness without pretense. 

Stand as one man against all forms of vice. 

Sacrifice self for the good of all. 
Nations, like men. may by righteousness rise: 

Weakened by evil at last they fall." 
Hear, oh, ye living, this voice of the dead! 

Wake to the needs of the present time! 
Rise in the spirit in which they bled, 

Firmly sustained by a faith sublime. 
Evil is rampant todav in our land, 

Loyalt}^ bids us uphold the right. 
Great, living issues our best thot demand. 

Oh, let us meet them in virtue's might. 



Goldenrod S3 



THE SONG OF THE TUB. 

With fingers blistered and torn, 

With shoulders aching and bent, 
A woman stood at a leaky old tub. 

Washing to pay up the rent. 
Rub. rub, rub ! 

In wretchedness, want, and despair. 
And still with a voice that once had been sweet, 

She sang of her woe and care. 

''AVash, wash, wash! 

Ere the day is ready to dawn; 
And wash. wash, wash. 

Till the blazing sun is gone. 
It's oh, to be at rest 

Along with the unthinking dead — 
Tho toiling and saving my Yery best, 

My children cry for bread! 

"AVash, wash wash, 

Till my head is sore with pain ; 
Wash, wash wash. 

For the thot of stopping is vain. 
Morn and noontime and night. 

Night and noontime and morn — 
Ah. few are the hours of blessed rest 

That come to mv life forlorn! 



.^4 (joldcnrod 

''Oil. nu'ii with happy homes I 

Oh. men who lieense the drink- 
1 1 is not money alone that's spent 

P'or rnm, whatever you Ihiiik! 
Rub, rub, rub. 

In weariness, hunju^er and pain. 
Sii-i\inii' for bread lest my chihli'en starve- 

'Pheir father is drunk a^'ain. 

"■I>nl wliy do I speak of this. 

My sorrow so deep and dj-ead ? 
1 almost wish that tomorrow's sun 

Mio-ht I'ise to find me dead; 
;\Iiiiht find my children dead. 

Beeanse of the woe and shann^ 
That elin^- as lono- as life itself 

Around the drunkard's nanu\ 

''Wasli, wash, wash! 

My work is not yet done. 
A fid what ai*e its wag'esf A bitter eurse. 

A blow, pei*ha[)s, from one 
Who once was kind, ere the temptei- came 

To ruin oui* happy home; 
l^'or I ean't give all my earnings so snuiU 

T(^ furnisli him with rum. 

''Wash. wash, wash, 

Thi'u the blessed sunny day! 
Wash, w a sh . w a sb , 

Tho i1 \\v'<\\ mv life awav ! 



(Joldenrod ^'^ 

Wcallli ;jii(l honor and fame, 
. Friends and comfort and hope 
Are the price, in part, tliat the Rinii-liend claims 
For the rem]^tinir. sparklini;- cuj). 

■' Wash. wash, wasli. 

In the cheerless wintn- liizht; 
And wash, wash, w^ash. 

When the summer is warm and l)i-iii'hl. 
AYhile other homes are blest. 

And other hearts are gay. 
ft is hard, alas ! to think that here 

The shadow's comes to stay. 

"Oh. but to taste once more 

Of the bliss that I used to know. 
Of the love that orlorified 

All my life in the lon^r a^ic! 
To live it o'ei* again. 

The s-sveet life that used lo be. 
Before I dreamed of days like this 

With theii- want and misery! 

"Oh, but to stand once more 

The care free and happy bride. 
To feel secure from danger and grief 

With the loved one at my side ! 
A little thing it may seem to some 

To barter men for* gold : 
But 'tis better to part with life than love. 

Av. better a thousand fold!" 



S6 Goldenrod 

Witli Hii^i'i-s blistered and toTii. 

With shoulders aching and bent, 
A woman stood at a leaky old tub. 

Washing to pay up the rent. 
Wash, wash, wash. 
For clothing and fuel — the rub 

Went on — with a voice that once had been 
sweet, 

AVould that its tones I could repeat, 
She sang- this song- of the tub. 



ODE TO SPRING. 

How dear to my heart is this glad longed-for 
season, 
When nature is spreading her carpet of 
green, 
AVhen budlets are swelling and blackbirds are 
yelling, 
And gophers skedaddle for fear they'll be 
seen; 
When farmers get up before five in the morn- 
ing, 
And get on a hustle and keep it all day. 
When wild bees are humming and gardens are 
coming. 
And sporty young breezes are heading this 
way; 
The balmy spring breezes, the health-giving 

breezes. 
The genuine article's headed this way. 



Goldenrod 87 

The housewives are cleaning from hen honse to 
parlor, 
And taking off chickens and raking the lawn: 
The young calves are bawling and babies are 
squalling, 
Ancl all hands are busy when spi'ing time 
<*omes on. 
The kids are rejoicing that school is near ck)s- 

And graduates conning orations galore. 
And even the teachers, those long suffering crea- 
tures. 
Are trying to smile at their pupils once more. 
The underpaid teacher, the poor, weary crea- 
ture, 
The sad-visaged teacher is smiling once more. 

'I'lie summer's too liot for real comfort, I'm 
thinking, 
And winter's too cold on this part of the map. 
AVhile autumn is hazy and makes me feel lazy 

And far less like working than taking a nap. 
l>nt spring with its green things, and other things 
grooving, 
With just enough frost to keep everything cool, 
With sunshine and showers and buglets and 
flowers. 
I vote it 0. K. as a general rule ; 
T s evei' new season, this fair, fickle season, 
Tlrs much talked of season's all right as a rui*.. 



88 (lohie 



(^LOUDS. 

The slushy January days 

Of chilly mists are here. 
These gloomy, soul-depressing times, 

The ornariest of the year. 
The grass with frost is laden. 

The ponds are frozen hard, 
'I'he neighbors pigs and yearling calves 

Tome tracking up the yard. 

Where is the sun. th(^ pleasant sun. 

Tliat often used to sliine 
With genial floods of golden light 

Across your path and mine? 
Alas! the clouds are dark and thick 

Between us and its light. 
We see its smiling face no more 

From morn till dismal night. 

And now 1 think of something 

Which makes me almost mad : 
It takes my appetite away 

And leaves me worn and sad. 
M,y breast is torn with tumult. 

My eyes are filled with brine. 
To think of last week's washing 

Still hanging on the line. 



(hjldenrofl 89 

PART II. 

The followinu wns written on the occasion 
of Bill Nye's lecture in Ilastinj^s, when Prof. 
Marian Thrasher taught in Edgar and 11. G. 
Lyon was editor of the Edgar Times: 

FACT AND FANCY. 

Listen, my children; and I will tell 

Of a genuine, modern, first-class sell. 

On a Friday evening in '88, 

In the broad and smiling Nebraska state, 

The cause of which, as you'll hear by and by. 

Was a noted humorist, one Bill Nye. 

With joy we heard of the coming treat, 
And our honored professor, as it was meet, 
Proceeded essential arrangements to make 
A fair delegation from Edgar to take. 
And every pulse w^ith joy beat high 
At thot of hearing the famous Bill Xye. 

^linister, doctor, and editor, too. 
Down to the depot fairly flew, 
And fair young schoolma'ams' nimble feet 
Hastily sped down the dusty street, 
While from anxious lips rose the panting cry, 
"On to Hastings to hear Bill Nye!" 



00 Ooldenrorl 

AYe reachl the depot in time to wait 
For the eoniiiis' train which, of course, was late. 
And the fear of all hearts was thas exprest 
By Prof. T. with heavin^' breast, 
With quivering lip and tear dimmed eye, 
"We shall be too late to hear Bill Nye." 

At last in spite of all ouj- fears, 
The train arrived, was hailed with cheers, 
And Prof. T. tho stayed and proud. 
For very joy now wept aloud. 
Between his sobs his voice rose high, 
"We shall get there to hear Bill Nye." 

As the train pulled out he gravely rose. 
Looked at his watch and wiped his nose. 
And then remarkt with smile most bland. 
"Of all great speakers in the land. 
My friends, I say without a jest, 
I truly think Bill Nye the best." 

With merry chat we crept along. 
With laughter gay and cheerful song : 
All fears and cares were left behind. 
One thot alone filled every mind. 
And each did with each other vie 
To say the most about Bill Nye. 

Next morning Professor, gossips say. 
Encountered a Lyon in the way. 
And clasping his friend in a warm embrace. 
While tears courst down his classic face, 



Goldenrod 91 

To a qnestioiiing look in the editor's eye, 
In acoents of woe he faltered. "Rill \ye!" 

"I enjoy a hnnibug now and then. 
'Tis relisht. yon know, by the smartest men : 
But this. I mnst say, was too awfully thin. 
And the principal source of my deep chagrin 
Is that pupil and parson and doctor and 1 
Were all sold so cheap bv that infamous Bill 
Nye." 

After "bumpino' their heads" with a mourn- 
ful "good day." 

They "unlockt their horns" and each went his 
way. 

Tn my girlhood days I thot perhaps sometime I 
would study medicine. This bit of verse was 
written for an exercise in the themes class. 

HOW I SPENT MY VACATION. 

Wishing that I had a hammock 
Made of barrel staves, you know;" 

Wishing then that I were in it. 
Swinging gentl}^ to and fro. 

Longing for a cooler climate. 

Grumbling at the pesky tiies. 
Chewing gum and eating onions, 

Climbing trees for exercise. 

Reading extracts from the papers, 
Playing checkers and croquet. 



f»l^ (iohh'iu-od 

Mrikiiiy '^j>rim and iifhastly" failures 
111 my efforts to crochet. 

Thinking of the days of childhood 
When my lieart from eare was free. 

When I lived on barley coffee, 
JohTHiy-cake and cherry tea. 

Dreaming of the happy future, 

When to cure human ills, 
F^rth I'll go with my diploma 

And a case of sugar pills. 

FORMEE DAYS. 

The woi-ld is growing better, so 

Some bold 7'eformers say; 
And may ])e they are right, but I 

Don't see things just that way. 

I have been young and now am old. 

And I remember well 
Some good things in the past of which 

We nevermore hear tell. 

When I was young we used to learn 
The spelling-book by heart, 

And all we'd need to spell it thru 
Was just to get the start. 

We used to have the spelling-school 
To test our knowledge, too ; 

A thing the youngsters nowadays 
Would scarcely care to do. 



Golrlrnnui ^3 

We used to ehoose up sides and spell : 

The contest oft was hot. 
And often some were standing yet 

At midnight, like as not. 

And then the last one on the floor 

Was 'most a hero crowned. 
And you eould hear his praises sunt:- 

For twenty miles around. 

I heard a young man yest(M'day, 

A promising M. D.. 
Tell of a modern spelling-school. 

And it just tickled me. 

Each wrote the list of words pronoun ct. 

And after, found his grade; 
Who stood the highest then had put 

The others in the shade. 

To miss is now thought no disgrace : 

My friend, at any rate. 
Announct without a blush or .sigh. 

His grade was 28 ! 

AVell, ev'ry fellow to his taste, 

Is now the common rule ; 
But shade of Webster! would you call 

That thing a '' spelling-school ?" 



^>4: Goldenrod 



TWENTY YEARS AGO. 

I've read the county papers, Tom. I've spent 
one blissful hour among- the scenes of other days, 
and if I had the powei- Pd make you feel the 
thrill, dear Tom. the sweet, exultant glow, that 
filled me as 1 read the news of twenty years ago 

TIow Mrs. Tucket's "garden sass" was spring- 
ing fresh and green, and Jason Pegg had bot a 
horse, the sleekest ever seen, and Xancy Tubbs 
had set a hen on eggs as white as snow, and that 
old hen had left her nest just twenty years ago. 

How Bildad Spriggins broke his leg in wrest- 
ling with his chum, and Soakem had a special 
sale of socks and chewing gum ; how pretty little 
Stella Styles went riding with her beau one moon- 
lit evening on a cart just twenty years ago. 

The news.' AVhy. yes, I think there were some 
items here and there, but somehow people nowa- 
days for such things do not care ; thej^ think the 
old times are the best and so they want to know 
what happened in the good old town just twenty 
years ago. 

You see we have the telephone, and 'tis a pleas- 
ant task, if one would know his neighbor's biz, to 
call him up and ask. In town and on the rural 
lines the tidings pass not slow, — the papers tell 
us charming tales of twenty years ago. 

I went to see the graveyard, Tom; I had for- 



Goldenrod 95 

gotten quite what year the Widow Saunders died 
and left our yearning sight ; but reading this 
week's paper, Tom, I found they laid her low be- 
side her husband (number six) just twenty years 
ago. 

We both remember well, old friend, the time 
has not been long, since if the papers lackt the 
news we felt 'twas something wrong: but modern 
progi-ess does away with many things, and so we 
feast our minds on what was news some twenty 
years ago. 

And editors would rack their brains and sit up 
late at night, composing Avhat they fondly hoped 
would public taste invite : but now thej^ fill her 
up with "plate." they advertise a show, and copy 
columns from their files of twenty years ago. 

And w^hen our summons comes, dear Tom. in 
silence we will pass, and none will know we're 
sleeping here beneath the weeds and grass, un- 
til some county editor will cause hot tears to flow. 
by stating that we died one day ''just twenty 
years ago.'' 



STAND UP FOR EDGAR. 

When some pessimist gets busy and begins to 
vm\ things doAvn, dwelling on the shocking mean- 
ness of this bustling little town, something seems 
to rise within me, something I cannot define, call- 
ing for a loud remonstrance, much as if the town 
were mine. 



96 Goldprirorl 

Well, it is; I'm living in it, and have surely 
right to claim some small portion of it. also to de- 
fend its worthy name. Ti'ue, it has its impei-fee- 
lions, hut the only one. we're told, whieh has not 
is yonder City where the streets are pure gold. 

And the Avay to make men hettei* — same rule 
holds, too, in a town — is to talk them up and never 
push aside noi- kick them down. And if we bui 
seek to find it, good does overbalance ill; Satan's 
not foreclosed his mortgage on this town and 
never will. 

There are ovenfuls of leaven lying scattered all 
about; be it ours to see and use it, not to gainsay 
nor to doubt. If we'd only count our blessings, 
talk of all the good iri town, we should have no 
time for kicking nor foi- running people down. 

So when chronic indigestion, or a case of "sour 
grapes." causes men and things in Edgar to as- 
sume peculiar shapes in the eyes of would be 
critics, and they point their guns this way, I ad- 
vise tlu^m to move onward, as it is my "busy" 
day. 

IN NEBRASKA. 

Come now, ye Solons, small and great. 
Lend me your ears while I relate 
The way the wise men legislate 
In Nebraska. 

And if your children want to know 
Why certain things are so and so, 
Then you (*an tell them "such things go 
In Nebraska" 



GoIdeiirorJ 97 

A certain senator was seen 
With "unkempt" hair and tragic mien. 
To ponder long and grow quite lean 
In Nebraska ; 

And when his fellows asked the cause, 
He sobbed outright and said, "Because 
There is a scarcity of laws 

In Nebraska." 

If I could only get the floor, 
I'd stand until my corns were sore. 
And plead for just one good law more 
In Nebraska. 

I can 't say now what it would be ; 
I'd study up some bright 'Idee' 
I'd like to put on record, see? 
In Nebraska." 

He got the floor, he kept his word. 
The legislative hall was stirred; 
Such eloquence was never heard 
In Nebraska. 

Said he, "I've heard a sound of woe 
From half a dozen lips or so ; 
It gets onto my nerves, you know. 
In Nebraska. 

Now gentlemen, an almanac 
On which I never turn my back. 
And which was never known to ''whack" 
In Nebx^aska. 



98 (rohlprirofi 

Declares without a ''but" or "if," 
That raging winds both high and stiff, 
Will take a sudden, spiteful miff 
At Nebraska. 

And this year March will usher in 
Such hurricanes as have not been 
Since Adam first learned how to sin. 
In Nebraska. 

And yet, I hear of plans on foot. 
Which have already taken root. 
To hold a Teachers' Institute 
In Nebraska. 

h\ this same month of March, in Clay. 
Which greatly adds to my dismay. 
I jest our fair teachers blow away 
In Nebraska." 

lie tore his hair in wild appeal. 
His voice rose to a piteous squeal : 
His whole frame anguish did reveal. 
In Nebraska. 

"Six letters on my desk do lie, 
And more are coming by and by. 
Which bid you to the rescue fly 
In Nebraska. 

Oh. pass a law and pass it quick,. 
Fix it somehow so it will stick, 
If it should fail — it makes me sick — 
In Nebraska! 



Goldenrod 99 

Forbid this deed so strange and rash 
On which Clay county's made a mash 
And send that institute to smash 
In Nebraska. 

Will you sit here, my colleagues, say, 
Enacting laws from day to day 
And let those teachers blow away, 
In Nebraska?" 

He plead with gesture and with jaw, 
Until the Solons clearly saw 
Their way to make a famous law 
In Nebraska. 

Henceforth, ''no institute" they say. 
'Until the thirty-first of May," 
And teachers will not blow away 
In Nebraska. 

When mighty deeds are called to mind 
In days to come. I think you'll find 
We shall not lag so far behind 
In Nebraska. 

But after all is said and done 
Our grand old state will tally one. 
And give three cheers for Epperson 
In Nebraska. 



100 Goldenrod 



OUR RECEPTION. 

Written for the occasion of the reception ten- 
dered Kev. and Mrs. E. N. Tompkins in the Meth- 
odist church at Edgar in the fall of 1907. 

When the conference is over and the new man 

has been sent, 
Soon as he is nicely settled and seems fairly well 

content, 
'Tis a joy to give him warning that his people 

will receive 
Ilim and his with proper handshakes on a certain 

Friday eve. 

Then's the time that we get busy and we plan 

for something fine ; 
And we call for contributions, ev'ry fellow in his 

line; 
Then such strenuous rehearsal as is heai-d all ovei' 

town ! 
We pi'opose to have no slouch Avork. but to do 

the thing up bi'own. 

So the girls look up thcii- music and select their 

very best. 
Pi'actice until after midnigiit. scarcely taking time 

to rest: 
While the boys take ofl' theii* collars, f(l: theii- 

lunys and cleai' their thi'oats 



(roldenrod • l^^l 

And give Yi.G'orniis attention to fill kinds of fetcdi- 
ing notes ; 

And Lee Browne before the mii-roi- poses patiently 

and long. 
Lest a gestnre shonld get sidetrackt. or sonn^ 

other tiling' go wrong. 
FjYi\. from another eity comes to us with smiling 

face, 
(rlad to be upon the program, deeming it a 

worthy place. 

Even Paul, to whom the rostrum is familiar as his 

hat. 
Meditates for full two minutes ei-e he thinks of 

something pat. 
Youth and beauty, grace and genius, willingly 

their tributes bring. 
To the end that this reception may be quite the 

proper thing. 

When the Tompkinses are aged 

And their locks have all grown gray. 
When they have well-nigh forgotten 

Many things along life's way. 
Then, methinks. that in their mem'ries. 

Like a full moon, round and bright, 
Still will shine the warm reception 

We have planned for them tonight. 

The persons referred to above are Lee Browne. 
Miss Eva Ferrce. and Paul Lester Klingermaii. 



102 . Ooldenrod 

,all young people of talent and well known in Ed 
gar. 

The two pieces following refer to local happen- 
ings in the spring of 1908, 

STODDARD'S MILITARY MAND. 

Who is the leader grave and stern, 
Who wants things done just to a turn 
And does most princely wages earn? 
That's Moffatt. 

Who is it plays the clarinet 
With credit to himself and yet 
Mien miodest as a violet? 
'Tis Voorhees. 

Who plays as to the tenor born 
And dearly loves to toot his horn 
And practices both night and morn? 
That's Ackley. 

Who plays the alto sweet and low 
Like summer brooJ^let's purling flow, 
Or kittens purring in a row? 
Young Strawser. 

Who is the genial baritone 
We greatly miss when he is gone 
And absent claim him as our own? 
Our Cecil. 



Golderirod 103 

And who is it, pray tell me that, 
Who beats the tenor drum so pat 
We pause to hear it rat-tat-tat? 
It's Frankie. 

Who are the ones whose dulcet toots 
Just lift a fellow in his boots 
And make his hair rise at the roots? 
Cornetists. 

Who are these bashful blushing ones, 
These faithful and deserving sons. 
The players of the slide trombones? 
Who are they? 

They shall be as nameless as shall they 
Who do the rieh-toned tubas play, 
Lest they take fright and hike away 
And leave us. 

Who is it pounds the big bass drum 
And makes the cymbals fairly hum 
rill all declare he's going some? 
That's Rickel. 

Who'll give a concert some glad night 
And public patronage invite 
And do their best to treat you right ? 
All of 'em. 



104 Goldenrod 



COME ON. 

Gladys, don your silken scarf 

And come along with me. 
We'll have the gayest time tonight 

That ever you did see. 

For Stoddard's Military band. 

In uniforms so bright, 
Will make this old disgruntled town 

Sit up and stare tonight. 

When Moffatt waves his slim baton 
And gives the starting word. 

There'll be let loose the richest thing 
That you have ever heard. 

For Richards will forget to blush, 
And Beck to smooth his hair. 

The while their cornets' silvr'y tones 
With music split the air. 

Jesse Humphrey's classic toots will make 
Some folks i)riek up their ears, 

And Strawser brothers' alto melt 
Old maidens into tears. 

Clair Voorhees when he once cuts loose 
That clarinet of his, 



Goldenrod K^ 

Will simplj' "beat the baud" and put 
The birdies out of biz. 

Frank Lake and Stayner, Percy, too, 

Will slide as slick as grease, 
Right into favor with the crowd 

Before they've played one piece. 

And Cecil's coming from the "hub" 

To lend his cheerful aid ; 
He plays as fine a baritone 

As any that is made. 

And Ervie Westering will blow 

The tuba up-to-date, 
The while his soul is rackt with fear 

His tie is not quite straight. 

When Raymond Ackley beats the drum, 

He beats the record, too; 
And there are hints of other things 

They talk of putting thru. 

The man that prints the Edgar Post,^ 

Will pound the big bass drum; 
He told your paw the other day 

He'd like to have us come. 

So, Gladys, get your dainty scarf 

And let us hie away. 
And I will pay for both of us 

And then the band will play. 



106 Oolderi/rod 



THE EDITOR'S CHILL. 

The editor sat in his sanctum, 
The fire and his spirits were low: 

He took a dolifierous tantrum 

And wrote of "the beautiful snow." 

'The bleak northwest wind is a-roaring 
Like creditors armed with a dun; 

And heat up the chimney is soaring 
As fast as an auto can run. 

The snowflakes are holdino^ a war dance, 

A rollicking, weird jambaree. 
The wind whistles loud in discordance, 

And rattles my windows in glee. 

The sky looks as dull as my future, 

Thermometer 's low as my coal, 
Days are long as the bill from my butcher. 

And profits as thin as my sole. 

I'll get sixteen 'poems' tomorrow 

From maidens of ev'ry degree, 
And they all will find out to their sorrow 

They can't stuff their 'Snow' slush down me. 

I'll fire it into the basket 

As fast as it ever can go, 
And there it shall stay in its casket — 

These odes about cold, clammy snow." 



Goldenrod 107 



THE EDITOR'S FOURTH. 

The editor was weary, 
His countenance was sad; 

A friend with smile most cheery 
Askt of the time he'd had. 

He tried to smile but couldn't, 
And pensively he sighed; 

He longed to weep but. wouldn't, 
And huskily replied : 

It was a celebration 
Well pleasing to the crowd, 

And Fairfield in elation 
Just fairly laughs aloud. 

When Avild applause was stormin; 

I shouted with the rest. 
And in the band performing 

I did my very best. 

But Edgar — oh, she needed 

To celebrate this year! 
I eloquently pleaded 

To have a good time here. 

With me there's no forgetting 
That Edgar would have made 



1<^^H Goldenrod 

A most attractive setting 
For such a grand parade. 

If she had only heeded 

She niiii'ht have had the nion 

Which she so sorely needed. 
And likewise all the fnn. 

All day a cloud of sadness 
Has hovered round my heart. 

And shadowed all my srladness 
And will not yet depart. 

T may be hard to show, but 
There's little to console. 

For Fairfield's ^oi the doughnut 
And Edgar's in the hole." 



WHAT AA^OULD YOT^ DO? 

The editor sat in his study 

And read his exchanges quite thru, 

And then this "original" poem 
He wrote for the public to view. 

'We publisht a joke in our paper 
One day in a frolicsome mood ; 

It cost us three old time subscribers 
Who said that such things were no good. 

We vow^ed no more jokes in our columns- 
Our patrons declared 'twas so dry 



Goldenrod 109 

That powder would look damp beside it, 
And seven more bade us good-by. 

We cudgeled our poor brain foi* matter 

Original, pungent, and pat : 
They clamored for standard selections. 

And said our productions were 'flat.' 

An ! when we had humored their notions 

And printed selections galore. 
They said we must be growing lazy. 

Because we 'don't wi'ite any moi'e.' 

We stayed in oui* office to hustle 

Some work we'd been forct to neglect. 

And someone complained that news items 
Were shorter than he would expect. 

We went on the street to procure 

The latest news floating about, 
Some said that our 'business must suffer' 

AVhen we were 'so constantly out.' 

Our wardrobe had grown somewhat seedy. 

Our hat had a weo hole a-top : 
This branded us 'gvowing quite shiftless.' 

With several papes to 'stop.' 

Then one day we donned a new headgear. 

And more of the people cried 'Shame!' 
Predicted we'd land in the poorhouse. 

Extravagance onlv to blame. 



liU (ioldnirod 

Will somebody please kindly tell us 
What course we may safely pursue? 

We own we are nearly distracted — 
Now candidly, what would you do?" 

Remorse seized the editor's conscience, 
And gripping his pencil once more. 

He wrote that another pen-pusher 
Had thot of these same things before 

But modestly added a postcript 
That no one. so far as he knew. 

Had ventured a rhyme on the subject. 
And here this reporter withdrew. 



THE EDITOR'S PUZZLE. 

The editor rode in his buggy 

Past acres of ripening corn, 
And stacks of the fragrant alfalfa 

Sun-kist in the fair autumn morn. 

He called on the prosperous farmers 

AVhose homes lined the roadway foi- miles 

They came to the crossings to greet him. 
And brightened his path with their smiles. 

They loaded his buggy with pumpkins, 
Encouraged his heart with their praise. 

And told him his excellent paper 
Like sunshine illumined their ways. 



Goldenrod HI 

They spoke of his tact and his genins. 

And all of his virtues did paint. 
Until the dazed editor wondered 

If he'd really turned to a saint. 

He bragged on their crops and their live stock. 

And landed farm life to the skies. 
Avoided political questions, 

And rose higher still in their eyes. 

He hinted at unpaid subscriptions. 
And they all declared 'twas a shame 

That they had his claims so neglected. 
And said they'd reflect on the same. 

, He tried to enroll new subscribers, 
But they wouldn't read any more. 
They said, until after election 
With all its excitement was o'er. 

The editor rode thru the twilight. 

Envelopt in thots that were blue. 
Of creditors not over-patient. 

And bills that were heavy with "due." 

He paid for the use of the buggy. 
And SAvallowed his supper of hash, 

And pondered till long after midnight 
On how he could live without cash. 

The following was written in reply to a humor- 
ous allusion in one of the Edgar papers by Dr. 
T. E. Casterline to borrowing this author's 
"poetry machine." 



112 Goldenrod 



WHEN THE "MACHINE" CAME HOME. 

iViisted ! 

'Just as 

T 

P]xpected- 

(^oiildn't well refuse to lend 

To a friend. 

Told him to handle with care — 

I declare 

1 can't make a decent rhyme! 

Not a stop is in place. 

The safety valve's lost. 

There is not a single trace 

Of the handle-bars, and thej^ cost 

A five, if a cent ! 

Of course the good doctor was bent 

Almost double, 

At thot of the worry and trouble 

He'd caused with the borrowed machine. 

He thought 

The x-rays ought 

To have some effect on the wreck, 

And he almost broke his neck 

In his haste 

To make amends. 

I love all my friends, 

And I'll ''kindly loan" 

Anything else I own; 



Goldenrod 113 

But I vow 

Riffhl now 

(3n the relics of this machine, 

When I get another, 

To Dr. C, or anj^ other 

Friend 

T will not lend. 

For several months a discussion was carried on 
in "The Edg'ar Post" between two prominent 
Edgar citizens. After it had continued for some 
time, the following account of it was written : 

COONRADT AND CASTERLINE. 

The preacher and doctor they got on a tilt. 
Anci buried their sword-blades cleai' up to the 

hilt 
In literal phrases and coinmon horse sense. 
In honest convictions and gilded pretense. 

And interpretations galore. 
While dogmas an.d ci*eeds felt the point of theii' 

steel ; 
They cut and they slashi with a strenuous zeal 
At errors in doctrine and errors in speech; 
They liackt and they hewed at whatever they 

could reach. 
And eagerly panted foi' more. 

The passersby smiled and then halted to gaze. 
Xext lifted their hands in a troubled amaze. 
As blow after blow, like as one felling trees, 



114 Goldenrod 

Was dextrously dealt or was parried with ease. 

Yet neitlier assailant would yield; 
The}' pranced o'er the grounds of historical lore, 
They ventured where sages had scarce trod be- 
fore, 
They called on the spirits of ages long gone 
To witness the conflict, and still they pressed on. 
And neither was thrust from the field. 

And closer and hotter the contest became; 
Their swords, keen and pointed, and flashing like 

flame, 
Now thrusting, hoav cii'cling. now poised, up and 

down 
Went whacking, till heard to tlie ends of the 

town. 
And ev'ry one turned out to see; 
And some cheered the preacher with vigorous 

lung. 
Some urged on the doctoi' with chimoi-ous tongue. 
Some argued the fight had progrest far enough. 
While othei's declared it to be just the stufl'. 
All asked what the outcome would be. 

J^ut suddenly, boldly, the preacher advanct. 
And straight in the eye of the doc1:or he glanct ; 
He leaned on the hilt of his terrible sword, 
In clarion accents he gave forth the word, 

"It's up to me, doctor, to quit!" 
The medical man seized the elder's ofl^ hand. 
And said with a smih' that was heartv and bland. 



Goldenrod l-«3 

"Whate'er may be said of the strength of your 

blade, 
I frankly admit that now you have made 
At last, quite a sensible hit." 

With dignified paces the preacher withdrew. 
And ev'ryone thot that the doctor would, too. 
They took up their hats and prepared to depart : 
Doe spit on his hands and he took a fresh start, 

And grabbed his old sword with a will; 
He cut out great chunks of the ambient air, 
He slit and he sliced them beyond all compare. 
In awe striken slience the crowd slipt away, 
But some who lookt back on that famous field 
say 

The doctor w^as fighting there still. * * 



STRAY THOTS. 

When the days are growing longer 

And the sun is climbing high, 
iMounting to his throne of splendor 

In the cloudless summer sky, 
When the warm Nebraska breezes 

Give a hint of coming days 
Growing hot and growing hotter. 

With their clouds of dust and haze, 
Then I borrow an umbrella, 

x\nd I pack my grip and scoot 
For the center of the coiuitj'. 

To the Teachers' institute. 



116 GoldcnrocJ 

I return the friendly greetings 

Of the few I used to know. 
Ere my hair was quite so streaked. 

In the blissful long ago : 
And I see the witching glances 

Of the sweet girl graduate 
Who is longing for the honors 

That attend the teacher's state; 
And I hear the smothered sighing 

Of the gentlemen so lone, 
And it forcibly reminds me 

Of that old ''sixteen to one." 

Then I listen to the good things 

Our instructors, patient men, 
Have been telling us these ten years. 

As they tell them o'er again; 
And my brain turns topsy-turvy. 

Crammed with methods which they praise 
For beguiling frisky youngsters 

Into wisdom's pleasant ways; 
Hut I swallow all prescriptions. 

Some unmixt and some dilute, 
AVhich McNally, Graham, Beattie 

Give us at the institute. 

Oh, it's hot and growing hotter. 

And I'm tired as I can be. 
And these warm Nebraska breezes 

Scatter all my energy. 
And I'm on the go from sunrise 

Till the wee small hours of night. 



Goidcnrod H' 



('lass(*s. loptures. (Mitertainnients 
All my Avakin*!- hours invjte: 

But I smile liko all the others. 
While with sinking" heart I foot 

All my bills, then, poekets empty. 
Go home from the institute. 



THE DEARTH OF IDEAS. 

The week of institute has come. 

The saddest of the year. 
Of empty purses, aching heads. 

And hearts that thump with fear. 
Heapt on the tables and the trunks 

Are books and notes galore, 
They meet you ev'rywhere you turn. 

On stand, or chair, or floor. 
The hours of peace and leisure have 

Flown sadly far away. 
And teachers as with one consent 

Are "stuffing'' all the day. 

Where is the wisdom, rare and great. 

We thot we once possest. 
When standing at our school-room desk. 

Our pupils we addrest? 
Alas! the little that we know. 

Like dcAV before the sun. 
Seems likely to evaporate 

Ere one short lecture's done. 
The efforts w^e have made to teach 

The young idea to shoot 



118 Goldeyirocl 

Look no more like this "^lodel School" 
Than snow resembles soot. 

Young Weaver delves in vain to find 

The thing's we used to know 
About geometry and such, 

Forgotten long ago ; 
But Blakesley draws us gently on 

To parse and write and read, 
Until our heads begin to swell. 

AVith honest pride indeed. 
Till Dowling pounces on iis with 

His vast historic lore. 
And the brightness of oui- smile is gone 

And lights the gloom no more. 

And now when comes that kindly man. 

For Clippinger is kind. 
To quicken our befuddled wits 

And bring some things to mind. 
When he propounds a question. 

We each in turn keep still. 
And try to look like wiseacres. 

With all our strength of will : 
And he and Clark, with footsteps light 

And puzzled faces go. 
And sigh to find how very much 

There is that we don't know. 

And now I think of one Avho is 

The cause of all this fuss. 
Who so unfeelingly had planned 

To make a show of us. 



(lohlrnrorl 11^ 

\ ^nsh th.'it he were sitting here. 

As I now sadly sit. 
Without an answer on his tongue — 

I wouldn't en re a bit! 
Yet not unmeet it is that one 

Should bear the blame I trow. 
And why should not that one be Coons 
Since fate had willed it so ? 
The above was written on the Clay Connty 
Teachers' institute held at Edgar in the summer 
of 1907. 

THE OLD S(T100L TTOT^SE. 

The new school house in District 26. commonly 
Ivuown as Excelsior, Avas formally opened last 
Friday night, December 8. 1905. with an enter- 
tainment and box social. A program consistin"' 
of songs, readings, dialogues, and tableanx by the 
school; music by the Excelsior Glee Club: and 
an address by Supt. Coons, was followed by the 
sale of boxes and supper. 

The school house was filled with an attentive 
and appreciative audience, and the proceeds 
amounted to about .^20. One of the numbers 
which was particularly well received was "The 
Old School House," written for the occasion, and 
sung by Bessie and Metta Harrison: 

HoAv dear to my heai't is the old shabl)y school 
house. 
When fond recollection presents it to view ! 
The place where my father his knowledge did 
gather, 



120 (iolderirorl 

Wny hack in tlio dnys when this country was 
now. 
That scliool house when builded was something 
to hoast of — 
1 know, for I've heard niv deai- i»"randfather 
tell— 
The compliuKMits paid it were really quite touch- 
in ^\ 
That very same school house we all love so well : 
That pioneer school house, that time honored 
school house. 
That little old school house we all love so well. 

That weather stained school house we hailed as a 
landmark ; 
Full thirty odd wintei's had ov(M' it passed; 
Tlu' district was proud of their tii'st institution. 
And some of us hoped that it miii'ht be the last. 
In vain were our protests, in vain was our plead- 
ing. 
In vain were the votes we so loyally cast ; 
The cranks have succeeded, oui' fond hopes de- 
feated, 
And have a new school house to hoast of at 
last ; 
l>ut ever and ever, till earth ties shall sever, 
(^ur fond hearts will cling to this love of the 
past. 

How sAveet are the menu)ries clinging about it! 

What tender emotions unbidden will swell. 
At thot of the good times now gone by for- 
ever, 



Golrhnirorl 121 

The jolly urood times vvc reiiiciiihcr so wcij ! 
We shivered with cold in th^t blessed old school 
house : 
The rain trickled on us in rills from above; 
The plaster fell down on our heads so devoted. 
But this only strengthened the cords of our 
love, 
(roodby, dear old school house! the leaky old 
school house. 
The shaky old school house, our fathers did 
love. 



GREETING SONG. 

Composed for the school on the same occasion 
as the preceding verses, and sung by them to the 
tune of "Birdies' Ball." It made quite a hit 
with the children and for them it is reproduced 
here : 

Someone said to the carpenter men, 

''Go to work and build again. 

Build a house big enough for all. 

The old and young, the great and small." 

(Chorus.) 

Tra la la la la tra la la la la 

Tra la la la la tra la la 
Tra la la la la tra la la la la 

Tra la la la la la la. 



122 Goldenrod 

They went to work with right <zood will. 
On floor and wall and roof and sill; 
They workt as if they never eould quit, 
They hammered until our heads were split. 

(Chorus.) 

They made it warm and they made it tight. 
They made it big and they made it light. 
They made it good enough for a king, 
Tn fact, 'tis the very latest thing. 

(Chorus.) 

They workt all day and they workt by night 
To make it snug and trim and right. 
They painted it neat and Avhite. and then 
We said goodby to the carpenter men. 

(Chorus.) 

The windows fairly shone with delight. 
The chim.ney roared and laught outright. 
The doorknobs turned for a look inside. 
And the old stove puffed in its Joy and pride. 

(Chorus.) 

We're just as happy as we can be. 

We've askt you to come and share oui* glee. 

We bid you welcome to all in sight. 

And hope you'll have a good time tonight. 

(Chorus.) 



Goldenrod Vl'.\ 



WED. 

On the marriage of a friend of 
my childhood. 

One more unfortunate. 

Losing his head, 
Rashly importunate, 

Gone to be wed. 

Let him dov,u tenderly. 

Poor married Matt. 
Fashioned not slenderly. 

Young and so fat. 

Look at his pompadour 
Rising a foot or more. 

Whilst the sweat constantly 

Drips from his forehead. 
Oh, fan him instantly. 
Panting and florid ! 

Pass him not scornfully.- 
Think of him mournfully. 

Gently, humanel.y ; 
Not of his blushing face. 
Stood he firm in his place, 

Answering plainly. 



l!24 (roldenyod 

Ask liini no question bold 
As to the custom old 

Of sweet serenading; 
Even the band went down, 
With all the kids in town 

Abetting and abiding. 

Alas, what a din and clang! 
Tlow all the cow bells rang 

On the still air! 
Oh. it was hideous! 
The bridegroom lookt piteous 

With sudden despair. 

Let him down tenderly. 

Poor married Matt, 
Fashioned not slenderly. 

Young and so fat. 

Owning his weakness. 
His need of protection. 

His faults leave with meekness 
To his fond wife's correction. 



STAND VV FOR NEBRASKA. 
Written" in the summer of 1901. 

Stand up for Nebraska, stand square on both feet : 
For what in the nation would folks have to eat 
If the farmers out here didn't raise so much 
wheat "? 



Goldenrofl 125 

The world is progressing and surely we owe — 
To it something lively, it wants nothing slow. 
The breezes that over onr broad cornfields blow 
And shrivel and frizzle them row after row. 
Have yet the rare virtue of "making things 
go." 

Stand up for Nebraska though dust may abound; 
That dust has its uses was long ago found : 
Man was made, we are told, of the dust of the 
ground. 

The weather is hot, that we do not deny. 

And may be hotter yet in the sweet by and by : 

The fellow who kicks at the heat in July. 

Will kick at the cold when the winter draws 

nigh. 
And remember these sunshiny days with a si oh. 

Stand up for Nebraska and sow her to wheat 
We may sizzle and frizzle and fry with the heat. 
Be blinded with dust and blown clear oif our feet. 
But we've said it before and we rise to repeat 
That with all of her faults oui' fair state can't 
be beat. 

Stand up for Nebraska! 

STILL STANDING. 

When I read Mae's little send-off of the autumn 

breezes bland, 
I could scarce refrain fi-oni ci'ving. "There's a 

poet in the land!" 



126 Goldenrod 

And as long I dwelt upon it, pondering each soul- 
ful word, 

Slowly memory awakened and a rushing* sound 
I heard — 

Heard a roaring and a rumbling, heard a rattling 
and a slam. 

Then a lull and then another crunching, punch- 
ing, shudd'i'ing jam. 

And the sound seemed quite familiar — I had 

heard it oft before, 
In the windy days of autumn, in the good old 

days of yore, 
When we spoke about the zephyrs getting on a 

little tear, 
And Ave really thought Nebraska had a little wind 

to spare. 
But it seems we were mistaken in the label ev'ry 

fall. 
Those winds came fi'om the Dakotas — not Ne- 

bi'aska winds at all. 

Then 1 thought of othei* autumns when the dr3\ 

dirt-laden breeze 
Whizzed aci'oss the dried-up praii'ie — whistled 

through the moaning trees; 
And remembered how we used to in our ignorance 

declare, 
When it came to wind Nebraska took the cake 

on getting there. 
Hut since scientific research now has righted thin 

old wrong. 



Goldenrod 127 

We ascribe these winds to Kansas, where they 
rightfully belong. 

So great gobs of satisfaction chase each other 

thru my soul. 
And great waves of admiration for Nebraska o'er 

me roll, 
And great gul})s of atonispheric purity with joy 

I breathe 
As her soft delightful weather does my w^vy soul 

en wreathe. 
When my legs are old and wobbling with the 

cares of life and such. 
[ will stand up for Nebraska if 1 have to use a 

crutch. 



A WINTER RHMYE. 

Written in the wintei- of 1901-1902. 

for a breath of balmy Awu*^ ! 
for a sniff of hot July ! 
for an August afternoon ! 
for a chance to sweat and sigh 

From heat ! 
This cruel wind so fiercely blows. 
It penetrates our thickest clothes 
And chills the marrow in our toes 

And feet. 

We stand beside the red-hot stove. 
And into it with groans we shove 



128 Goldenrorl 

The high-priced coal the while there move 

And play 
Along our spine the creeping chills 
That whisper of a thousand ills. 
And hint at gilt-edged doctor-bills 
To pay. 

Nebraska, we have loved thy name ; 
We've done our best to spread thy fame: 
We've even lied to pufiP the same. 

With vim. 
AVe've stood right by thru thick and thin, 
And lost our crops and spent our tin. 
And still maintained that you were in 

The swim. 
But really your latest freak 
Of weather is the final straw. 
Come off, or we with 3^ou will bi'oak 
And emigrate to Arkansaw. 

And then 
^ome other fool will waste his time 
Composing sti'ings of wretched rhyme 
To sing the pi'aises of your clime. 

Amen. 



GENTLE SPRING. 

Written in the spring of 1903. 

We're a standin' fer Nebrask3^ standin ' ankle 
deep in mud. 
An' the cold north wind is blowin' i-ound our 
forms, 



Goldeinod 129 

And the cruel rain is bpatin' down on our devoted 
heads, 

An' we squirm with chilliness amid the storms. 
But we stand up for Nebrasky with a firm an' 
stiff back-bone. 
An' we'll sing hei* praises till we're deaf an' 
dumb; 
S5he may be a little cranky with the weather 
bureau man. 
But we're bettin' that the gentle spring will 
come. 

So amid the frozen r-nins of our garden patch we 
stand, 
An' we think of all the fruit we'll have nexl 
year, 
An' we calkilate 'twill take us till the 4th of next 
July 
For to git our listin' finished purty near. 
But we'll stand up fer Xebrasky an' assert that 
she's ahead. 
An' we'll swing nur hats an' holler till we're 
hoarse ; 
She may git a little bumptious 'bout her program 
now and then. 
But the gentle spri n.g will come of course. 

We will stay in old Xebrasky long as overcoats 

is made ; 
Till we grow" web-footed slodgin' in the mud: 
Till we're bent up like a jacknife or killed olT 

with rheumatiz ; 



130 Golrlpnrorl 

But we never will forsake this dear old sod. 
Other folks kin go to Texas or Alizoory if they 
choose, 
We're a goin' to stand right here an' sing; 
An' along some time next summer when the har- 
vest time is past, 
Mebby we will git a taste of gentle spring. 



PART III. 

The following verses were written for my little 
nephews, Wesley and Vernon Jacobs, as birthday 
remembrances. At the request of immediate 
family friends they are given here : 

To Wesley on his First Birthday, Sept. 12. 
1902. 

A year old today is our treasure. 

Our comfort, our hope, and our joy. 
No words can express the full measure 

Of love for our darling, our boy. 
One short, fleeting year, one year only. 

Since into our earth-life he came ; 
We forget to be weary or lonelj^ 
At thot of our little one's name. 

One year full of grateful care-taking. 
Of watchfulness, labor, and joy. 

One year full of blessed love-making 
Between parents fond and our boy. 

One year — what a world full of droainiii!;: 
This short space has witnest- How glad 



Goldenrod 131 

Our hearts have been made with the seeming 
Of good things in store for our lad! 

But why need we look to the morrow? 

Far wiser to find in today 
The brightness and beauty, for sorrow 

And pain may lurk over the way. 
So here's to our baby's first birthday! 

Our hearts shall know nothing but joy, 
As into our Father's safe keeping — 
Another glad year. Father, keep him — 

Commend we our dear little boy. 

On Wesley's Second Birthday. 

Such a crash and clatter ! 
What can be the matter? 

Precious baby boy has surely had a fall I 
But he 's up and after 
Puss with shout and laughter, 

Manlj^ little fellow makes no fuss at all. 

Gan it be our baby 

Is two years old today ? 
How the time is flying 

On pinions swift away ! 

Happy little laddie. 

Busy all the day. 
Making golden sunshine. 

All along our way. 



132 Golden rod 

Ev'ry word and action 
Hinds him closer yet 

To the hearts that love him. 
Nor can we forget. 

Here's a kiss, my darling, 
And an earnest prayer 

That the loving- Father 
Keep yon in his care. 

THREE YEARS OLD. 

I'm three years old today, 
My Papa^s little man; 

I'll soon be wearing pants. 
My Mamma says I can. 

My little dresses now 

Will brother Vernon's be — 

He doesn't wear pants yet, 
Becanse he isn't three. 

I have a nice new suit 
That Mamma bot for me 

To weai- away from home. 

And that's because I'm three. 

The nicest thing I knoAv — 
The nicest that can be — 

Is just to be a boy, 
A little boy of three. 

I mean to grow and grow 
Just like a little tree. 



Goldenrod 133 

And Vernnii will ui-ow. loo. 
And some dny he'll he three. 

T guess this hi"', round world 

Was made for little me. 
And everybody h)ves 

A little boy that's three. 

FOUR TODAY. 

Pour short years a,sJ'o today 

You eame to bring' us joy. 
Just a helpless little babe. 

But now a sturdy boy. 

Dancing eyes alight with mirth. 

And sweet face, dimpled, bright. 
You're our comfort and our hope, 

Altho you're but a mite. 

Half our love for you, dear child, 

We never can express. 
Half our joy nor half our pride. 

Nor half our wish to bless. 

Pretty, artless, thotless one. 

When you are gi-ave or glad. 
Still our hearts beat warm for you. 

Our precious little lad. 

Sing and smile and prattle on. 

All thru life's merry morn. 
We with grateful hearts will bh'ss 

This day that you were born. 



134 " Goldcnrod 



A LITTLE BOY OF FIVE. 

The seasons come and the seasons go, 

xVnd the birthdays soon arrive ; 
But somehow time seems to pass but slow 

To a little boy of five. 

We think our darling has grown so tall, 

And rejoice to see him thrive, 
But he declares he's not big at all, 

Does our little boy of five. 

AVe say that he learns so very fast. 

And much joy from it derive; 
But "Shall I grow to be wise at last?" 

Asks our little boy of five. 

Grow on, sweetheart, not for aught on earth 

Would we ever you deprive 
Of hopes and dreams that to you have worth, 

Our dear little boy of five. 

Deal gently. Time, with our darling boy, 

And in passing pray contrive 
To bring a full measure of lasting joy 

To this little lad of five. 



Goldenrod 1'35 



WESLEY IS SIX. 

Skies are bright and days are fine. 
Summer's in a soft decline. 
Nature's heart's in tune with mine. 
And Wesh^y is six. 

Nights are calm and stars are bright, 
Like our darling's eyes alight. 
Sweet birds sing, the world's all right, 
And Wesley is six. 

What a world of hope and joy 
Centers in our precious boy, 
Pleasures, too, that never cloy — 
And Wesley is six. 

Hope for many happy years, 
Sun-bright days undimmed by tears, 
Glad with love, not vext by fears,— 
For Wesley is six. 

Joy that Ave are counted meet 
Just to guide the little feet 
In the way of truth so sweet, — 
When Wesley is six. 

Pleasures only those can know 
AVho have trod with footsteps slow, 
Paths where little children go, — 
Wesley is six. 



136 Goldenrod 



WHEN A BOY IS SEVEN. 

The world is big iind bright and fair, 
And birds sing sweet and skies are blue, 
And friends are many, troubles few, 

And love and light are everywhere, 
AVhen a boy is seven. 

There is so very much to learn. 

The road to knowledge true and sweet, 
Invites the restless little feet, 

To it with eager joy they turn, 
When a boy is seven. 

The sun shines bright along the way, 
And to the happy child it seems 
All things conspire to aid his dreams 

Of greatness in his tasks and play. 
When a boy is seven. 

Dream on, play on, my bonny boy, 
And may the world indeed be kind 
In coming days like these behind 

You, give you health and truest joy, 
Little boy of seven. 



Goldenrod 137 



LITTLE VERNON. 

Feb. 28. 1904. 

Our baby boy has crept 
To milestone number one, 

Along life's checkered path, 
His journey's just begun. 

Above, the sky was clear 

But soft, and bright and blue; 

Below, a dreamy haze 

Just hid the distant view; 

The sunlit wavelets danct 
And sang a low, sweet song, 

And birdies trilled in glee 
As baby crept along. 

Today our darling stands 
Beside the first milestone, 

A timid, winsome tot. 

Scarce dares he stand alone. 

Grod bless our precious boy! 

Oh, Father, may Thy love 
Enfold, protect and keep 

And guide him safe above. 



l'^8 Goldenrod 



TO VERNON. 



You queer little dear little budget of love, 

I wish I could see yon today. 
I'd set a big kiss on yonr sweet little phiz, 
Then we'd have a rollicking play. 
And you'd laugh and you'd shout, 
And you'd tumble about 

Like a hop-toad or soft rubber ball, 
And when tired you'd rest 
Your dear head on my breast. 
Until you felt tired ''not 'tall." 

You neat little sweet little bundle of bliss. 

Today is your birthday, my pet. 
We've known you two years Avith your smiles and 

your tears, 
■ And each day you grow dearer yet. 
And we love you so well 
That no tongue can e'er tell 

What we think of you, dear little one. 
And we earnestly pray 
For a blessing each day 

Upon your sweet life just begun. 

THREE TODAY. 

My heart has been singing this whole day long, 
And this is its one sweet burden of song, 
Nor toil nor care can drive it away — 
"Our baby is three years old today " 



Goldenrod 1^9 

The jolly old siui rose laughing outright, 

I said, ''What makes you so uncommon bright ?'' 

He shook his head in a knowing way — 

"Our baby is three years old today.'* 

The little bii'ds sti-ained their tiny throats 

To pour forth a flood of silvery notes; 

I said, "What makes you so uncommon gay?" 

"Our baby is three years old today." 

The white frost lay sparkling everywhere, 
And gladsome sounds filled the still crisp air. 
While soft, sweet whispers seemed to say, 
"Our baby is three years old today." 

All nature seems glad when the heart is light, 
And this day for me has been blest and bright; 
And tonight as I go apart to pray. 
I whisper my thot to God and say, 
"Our baby is three years old today." 

TIME'S HORSES. 

The years are horses fleet and strong 
On which thru life we're forced to ride; 

The young and old are borne along, 
The ricii. the poor, all side by side. 

The babies' horses move so slow 

They scarcely know they move at all ; 

The little tots would faster go, 

And feel quite sure they would not fall. 



UO Goldenrod 

The horses for the four-year-olds 

Are lartje and handsome, white as milk, 

With shapely ears and gentle eyes. 
And manes and tails like shining silk. 

The road just here is hard and dry 

And level as an oaken floor; 
The horses could jnst fairl.y fly. 

And boys would like it vastly more. 

The way is frin«'ed with flowers and trees. 
Thru which the .srolden sunshine s'Hnts, 

And pure and fresh the balmy breeze 
On childish brows its kiss imprints. 

But oh, the horses walk along 
With such a slow and even pace ! 

Why won't they trot? They're lithe and stron*;. 
And we are eager for a race. 

Be still, dear child; before you lie 

Full many miles you reckon not, 
liide gaily on and by and by 

I promise you the horse will trot. 



FIVE YEARS OLD. 

So this is our darling's birthday! 

We scarcely can deem it true 
That five happy years have passed us 

Since he came — the days seem few. 



Goldenrod 141 

Old Time is a cunning fellow, 

He hides from our wistful sight 

His hour-glass while 'tis turning. 
So we may not read aright. 

Ah, well, 'tis but little matter. 

Our baby a boy has grown, 
A dear little manly fellow. 

With ways that are all his own. 

A hearty and gay little laddie, 
Each day learning something new, 

With mind that is simple and guileless, 
And heart that is pure and true. 

There's many a wondrous lesson 

Which we older ones may learn. 
If with honest faith and earnest 

To these little ones we turn. 

Together then we will hasten 

To sit at the Master's feet. 
"WHio said to forbid not the children. 

And cherish his message sweet. 



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